Overwatch: Crimson
by MalMaelstrom
Summary: When a young member of Overwatch discovers a plot to undermine the organization from within, he's faced with a choice that may very well alter his life forever. Rated Mature for Violence, Strong Language, and Sexual Content.
1. The Assassination Of Mondatta

**Prologue: The Assassination Of Mondatta**

 _London, England, United Kingdom_

The night was young, and the United Kingdom's Capital was ablaze with lights. The night sky itself was illuminated by the many lights reflecting off the moisture in the air, obscuring the stars from view in a haze of brightness. The megacity was bustling with life as its human and omnic citizens moved about with their normal lives, and down on the streets in front of King's Row, a crowd had gathered. Humans and Omnics alike were gathered in front an elevated podium, and within the building behind it, the Omnic Monk Tekhartha Mondatta was preparing for a speech. In the wake of the Omnic Crisis, he had led a group of robotic outcasts into the Himalayas, where he'd established a communal monastery. In the years since, the Shambali Monk had become a strong advocate for peace between the human and omnic races. His quest for such had become a famous one, and his voice had reverberated throughout the world, gaining him a strong footing in the movement and taking him around the globe, speaking out publically to humans and omnics alike. The Omnic Crisis had left a terrible scar upon the world, and it was a voice like Mondatta's that was sorely needed in a time where humans still feared the machines they created decades ago. Such fear was what led to anger, to rage, and to violence. Violence the likes of which Mondatta never wished to witness again, nor did he want any pure, kind-hearted soul to be tainted by it. He had come to realize during his time in Nepal that through peaceful teaching and reaching out, the gap between human and omnic could be bridged, establishing a new era of peace in a time when such peace was rare among two such differentiating peoples.

Now, after years of working towards peace, Mondatta had been given the chance to speak at King's Row itself. Add in massive media coverage, a large crowd, and heavy security all around the area from police to SWAT to the British Secret Service, MI6 themselves, and it was a perfect opportunity to make an impact on a larger scale than ever before. But with this opportunity came massive risk. It was no secret that Mondatta had made more than his fair share of enemies in his quest for peace. Not everyone agreed with his message of peace, sadly, and there were some who even adamantly opposed it. While the former was to be expected in a world built on free will of choice, the latter posed a massive risk, especially for an appearance such as this one. Some were merely protesting against his message, others very much wanted him dead for it. There were those in the world who benefitted from human-omnic animosity, and they were, sadly, among those who wanted Mondatta silenced the most.

And as it happened, one such person was there in King's Row, observing the event from nearby.

From around a building some distance away from the main building, a man stood observing the crowd anxiously awaiting Mondatta's appearance. A man that for all his calm demeanor had malevolent intent that if realized could shape the future of human-omnic relations for years to come. He stood observing the gathering from nearly 3 blocks down, his cybernetically enhanced eyes zooming in on the podium, allowing him to see it as though standing among the crowd himself. The security surrounding the monk was tight, for certain. Any normal assassin would have a rough time of it if they went for a kill.

But then, he was anything but a normal assassin. Ducking back behind the building, the man put a hand to his right ear, where a communicator was nestled in, pressing it slightly to open the channel.

"Widowmaker, I'm in position, what's your status?" The man spoke in a thick Scottish accent, his once-smooth voice marred by a slight gravelling rasp, the result of multiple surgeries in the wake of a horrifying incident. The hand touching his communicator, like his eyes, was cybernetic, as was his other arm and his right leg, all hidden behind black clothing highlighted in blood red. His hair was red as blood, but the ends were black as pitch, short and aerodynamic. A pair of black visor-shades rested on his forehead, his cybernetic eyes white as death, the pupils red as blood.

"I am nearing my vantage point." A female voice answered him, low and sultry with a thick French accent.

"ETA?"

"Thirty seconds, no more."

"Affirmative." The Scot switched channels and spoke to another person. "Reaper, this is Crimson. We're in position. Stand by."

"Affirmative." A gravel-gargling snarl responded, before Crimson switched back to his previous channel, lowering his hand to sever the connection. Everything was in place now. Crimson lowered his visor shades over his eyes, revealing a wicked-looking angled symbol on his forehead, tattooed in blood red to match the highlights on his dark clothing. One could distinguish four unique shapes in it: a pentagram, a hexagram, an upside-down equilateral triangle, and square in the middle, an inverted cross. Holstered at his hips were two black, custom built high-powered sidearms, built with enough power to blow a man's head clean off. He looked back around the building, his enhanced eyes zooming in once more, and his visor's targeting system activated, calculating multiple routes towards the podium in case assistance would be needed. Widowmaker was the intended assassin for the job, but in the event things went awry, he was there on the ground, ready to act in case the French sniper was compromised. There was no reason to suspect that she would be, but Crimson never left anything to chance, and had insisted on coming as a contingency. If Widowmaker failed, Crimson would finish it.

The crowd suddenly went wild, cheering loudly as Mondatta himself emerged from the building behind the podium, garbed in his signature white robe, laced with gold threading, his demeanor calm as ever. Indeed, were he human, a serene smile would be gracing his features. He approached the podium calmly, spreading his arms out in a gesture of welcome, metaphorically embracing the crowd as a whole.

"Human. Machine. We are all one within the Iris." He began, the crowd cheering loudly in approval. "Before me, I see the future: humans and Omnics standing together. United by compassion. By our common hopes and dreams."

Crimson just grunted as the crowd listened intently, but then movement caught his eye, a flash of blue. Upon looking however, there was no one to be seen, but he knew someone was there, and he had a shrewd idea as to who it was. Only one person in the world could move that fast, and leave a flash of blue to boot.

Tracer.

Crimson, sensing an imminent attack, raised his hand to his ear piece to alert Widowmaker of the former Overwatch Agent's presence but was too late. Before he could even press the button to open the channel, the sound of gunshots reached his ears. He recognized Widow's rifle, and several more rapid-fire shots caught his attention as well. Tracer had found Widow and was engaging her in combat.

"Shit..." Crimson growled to himself and switched channels. "Reaper, Widowmaker's compromised, I'm going in." Crimson drew both his guns and glanced back at the podium. Apparently the MI6 agents guarding Mondatta had gotten wind of the attack and were moving him. Crimson's visor calculated rapidly, alerting him that there were 17 MI6 agents between him and Mondatta. Perfect.

Without a second thought Crimson was moving, running in a low stance towards Mondatta. The first guard in front of him had his back to him. Crimson dashed up behind him, grabbing his mouth and planting a bullet in his back, dead on impact. The second guard, alerted by the gunshot, had only a fraction of a second's notice before Crimson fired a second round through the first guard's corpse, scoring a headshot and muffling the shot. Never losing momentum even for a second Crimson tossed the first guard aside and kept moving. Three more guards were ahead in a line. Lining up the shot with his visor targeting and calculating the trajectory, Crimson raised both guns and fired them simultaneously. The first bullet went through the first guard's head and into the head of the guard next to him, and the second bullet took out the third instantly afterwards. The other 12 guards were alerted now, and began moving towards Mondatta, creating a barrier between the Omnic and the assassin trying to kill him. Crimson's eyes narrowed as his visor calculated a new route, and he ducked around another building, running through an alleyway towards Mondatta's limo, where the MI6 were escorting him.

Before he could reach the end of the alleyway, however, someone dropped down from above, landing with a metallic clang on on the ground and then levitating in front of him in a meditative stance. There were nine metal orbs around his neck that began floating in a circle around him as he began to levitate. The presence of the orbs, as well as the pants garbing the Omnic in front of him, told him exactly who it was.

"Tekhartha Zenyatta," Crimson smirked as he recognized Mondatta's fellow monk, in fact a close friend of said monk. "I knew you couldn't have been far away, with Mondatta here."

"You will not touch him." The omnic replied, his tone as calm as ever but his anger palpable despite his attempts to quell it. "You will go no further."

"You're no fighter, monk." Crimson snarled, his visor scanning Zenyatta rapidly. "You're a healer with little combat experience. Regardless of your 'biology'." Without wasting anymore time, Crimson charged. Zenyatta, reacting quickly, summoned a Discord orb, sending it towards Crimson rapidly. Crimson, reacting faster than humanly possible, jumped to the right, the orb sailing by him, and then fired a single round, shattering it, before pushing off the wall with his cybernetic right leg, flipping him over the omnic and spinning around, landing a hard kick on the back of Zenyatta's metallic dome and knocking him out of levitation with a resound metallic clang. Zenyatta whirled around in place, firing five blue orbs of pure energy towards his assailant. Dodging them, Crimson spun around landed his left elbow on Zenyatta's head before firing several shots into his chest area. Zenyatta, stunned, seemed to lose his balance for a moment before Crimson once more kicked him with his cybernetic leg, finally knocking him out of levitation and putting him on the ground. Even as a distant explosion was heard, Crimson, making sure the monk stayed down, planted his cybernetic foot in the middle of his chest area, denting it and pinning him down.

"I suppose I'll be killing two omnic monks tonight then." Crimson smirked as he aimed his guns at Zenyatta's head. His cybernetic eyes honed in on Zenyatta's face, almost laughing at the omnic's lack of expression. For a moment they just stared at one another, Crimson's fingers curling around both triggers as he prepared to end the omnic's scant 20 years of life.

A sudden rush of wind caught Crimson's attention, and as he looked back, a familiar black airship was hovering above him, its white searchlight aimed at him. Crimson smirked as he looked back at the Omnic on the ground in front of him.

"You're one lucky bag of bolts." He declared, holstering both his guns and raising his right arm as a grappling hook came down, latching to it. Crimson wrapped it round his arm to secure it, and a moment later was lifted off the ground, pulling himself towards the ascending airship. A moment later his cybernetic left hand latched to the extended boarding platform, and he pulled himself into the ship as it started closing behind him.

Widowmaker herself stood within the ship, eyeing Crimson as he straightened up and noticed her. As he removed his visor he noticed her expression, and a small smirk formed. She was sporting a self-satisfied smile, her yellow eyes gleaming as she walked towards Crimson, reaching him in only a few paces. Her left arm wrapped around his neck as she planted her lips on his, her other hand still clutching her rifle as Crimson kissed her back. He felt her touch, felt her lips against his, but he didn't feel her cold skin. In fact he didn't feel much of anything, but at that moment he felt nothing but satisfaction as the kiss parted, his cybernetic eyes gazed into Widow's fell yellow orbs, a coy smirk forming on her lips.

"Mission Completed, _Jack._ " She said in a sultry, seductive tone, and Jack Crimson smirked in response.

"Good."


	2. The Stuttgart Heist

**The Stuttgart Heist - One Year Earlier**

 _Overwatch Headquarters, Location Undisclosed_

Jackson Lawrence entered the meeting room at Overwatch Headquarters, his red hair instantly popping out in stark contrast to the vivid electron blue light that illuminated the room courtesy of the massive holopad table at the center. Jackson was a fairly recent Overwatch Agent in his early 20s, having been recruited mere three years prior, and he was one of the few Overwatch Field agents with no military background, having worked originally as a gun maker in Glasgow, Scotland. During off time he'd trained privately with a marksman in the British Army, and had developed a keen eye as a marksman himself. He'd been found by Overwatch stalwart Ana Amari when he'd stopped an armed robbery at a bank just up the street from his shop. Ana had been scouting the area and had watched Jackson, with no reason, backup or assistance given, enter the bank and take out the perpetrators with one shot for each of them, taking out each of their trigger hands and nothing else, disabling them long enough for police to arrive. She'd been impressed by his decision to act in defense of the people inside, as opposed to offensively, i.e. to kill. Thanks to his quick action, every person there had been saved. With that in mind she'd offered for him to join Overwatch despite his lack of a military background, as his skill and his regard for what he called "the little lad" was exactly what Overwatch needed. Since then he'd operated under the simple nomenclature 'Jackson', one of Overwatch's most skilled gunmen.

Now, he entered the Overwatch conference room, garbed as always in a crimson leather jacket trimmed with black that contrasted with his vivid red hair, a white shirt under it, with denim-blue form-fitting pants and black boots, his high-powered chrome-plated sidearms holstered on his thighs. In the center of the room, gathered around the holo-table, were Overwatch Strike Commander Jack Morrison, his co-commander Reinhardt, a Germanic golem and one of the first members of Overwatch, and last of all, Ana Amari, her hat removed as she surveyed the display in front of her, conversing with her fellow Overwatch founders.

"You called me in?" Jackson said aloud, his thick Scottish accent making them look up collectively.

"Jackson! Yes, thanks for coming." Ana replied with a smile.

"We have a job for you, think you might be up for it?" Morrison leaned over the table, looking Jackson in the eyes.

"What's the job?" Jackson returned Morrison's steely gaze with a wide grin. Morrison returned the grin and opened a mission file, displaying it in the air for him to see.

"There have been reports recently of a...bomb enthusiast and a heavyset cohort who have been hitting just about anything where they can gain something out of it." The strike commander elaborated. "Their last hit was on a gold conservatory somewhere in Austria. Unfortunately, since that hit they've been off radar, and our attempts to track them haven't been successful."

"Our intelligence, however, points to a large gold conservatory in Stuttgart, Germany." Ana put in. "We believe they may be headed there, though we don't know for certain as of yet." The Egyptian woman looked serious. "But it's not the gold that really concerns us."

"Fact is, these two men have been robbing, pillaging and destroying everything they've laid their sights on with no regard to who they harm in the process." Morrison said grimly. "And if we let them keep at it, there's no telling who else will get hurt."

"They are honorless and gutless." Reinhardt growled. "They _must_ face punishment for their atrocious crimes!"

"We need you to identify them and bring them in." Ana stated. "Kill them only if absolutely necessary."

"If they're as dangerous as you say they are, I won't be no good on my own." Jackson said as he eyed the mission file laid out in front of him.

"You won't be." Ana replied with a bit of a knowing smile. "Tracer will be joining you."

"Beg pardon?" Jackson raised a quizzical eyebrow at the mention of Overwatch's notorious British hothead.

"She's been antsy to get back in the field. We felt a mission like this would do her some good." Ana elaborated, frowning slightly at Jackson's incredulous expression. "Is there a problem, Jackson?"

"..." Jackson sighed a bit and looked down at the holo-table. "Is there no one else available? At all? I know Tracer's antsy, but that's exactly what worries me."

"I'm not sure I..." Ana was cut off.

"She has no patience!" Jackson exclaimed. "Every time we go on mission together she compromises whatever strategy I form and attacks prematurely! She has no sense of timing, and feels that the sooner the job is done the better. She never thinks about consequences!" Ana and Morrison looked at one another as Jackson said all this, and they had to concede he had a point, and his concerns were valid.

"Regardless, Jackson," Ana said sternly, "we _need_ to stop those two men however possible. And since Blackwatch is currently occupied with gathering intel on the Talon Organization, and most everyone else in Overwatch are on their own missions, Tracer is your only option. Besides." The Overwatch captain smiled knowingly once more. "She'd try to follow you regardless. She can't sit still."

"Ugh...I really have no choice in the matter, don't I..." Jackson sighed in a resigned manner. "Very well then, Captain Amari. I depart for Stuttgart in one hour." And with that, Jackson turned and left the meeting room, resigned to the worst.

"That kid's attitude's gonna get him killed one day." Morrison remarked, shaking his head at Jackson's irritation.

"Maybe. Maybe not." Ana replied. "Time will tell."

 **X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X**

 _2 Hours Later - Approximately 30 Miles Outside Stuttgart, Germany_

Jackson crouched behind a large tree, his guns at the ready and his visor lowered. He and Tracer had taken cover in the forests surrounding Stuttgart, and were currently waiting for the arrival of their quarries. Tracer, for the life of her, had no idea what made Jackson so sure that whoever these culprits were would take this particular route, or why they'd bother going through woods when the men in question liked blowing things up.

"Ugh...remind me again, luv, _why_ exactly we're hiding in these woods for a bomber?" Tracer's voice was irritated and impatient, as always.

"Because these woods face Austria, and that's where they were last sighted, I've already gone over this." Jackson sighed in frustration. "I'm only speculating but my best guess is that they'll be coming this way to avoid any detours. I've researched their previous hits, and they're not ones to waste time getting to their next hit. That said, if Overwatch's intelligence points to Stuttgart, then it's likely for them to pass this way as it leaves no detours or distractions."

"And you've not at all thought that you maybe overthought this a bit?" Tracer sighed as she rolled his eyes. "You based this whole thing on theories that sound like you literally pulled them out your-"

"QUIET! Someone's coming..." Jackson cut Tracer off and glanced around his tree, his visor calculating and scanning the area rapidly. "3200 meters, and closing fast..." The roar of a motorcycle engine began to echo through the forest as Jackson's eyes narrowed. "Tracer, you have visual?"

"Yeah, I see them...blimey, they look horrendous..." Tracer replied, her cringe audible in her tone.

"Don't engage, repeat, don't engage." Jackson urged her as he switched cover behind another tree. "We don't know what kind of arsenal they're carrying."

"We know they're bombers, right? All we have to do is disable them before they blow things up!" Tracer protested.

" _One_ of them is a bomber, Tracer, we don't know what the other one does! Hell, we don't even know which one the bomber is, for fuck's sa-"

"Engaging them now!" Tracer cut him off.

"DAMNIT TRACER!" Jackson growled, breaking cover and running towards the direction his visor was indicating. _I knew this would happen,_ _I knew this would happen,_ _I knew this would happen,_ _I knew this would fucking happen!_ Shots started ringing out in the forest, and Jackson could make out Tracer's excited giggle in the distance. _You bloody hothead, you're going to get us ki-_ A distant explosion cut off his train of thought, sending a spike of fear through his heart. "Shit!"

"Bloody 'ell, fawkin' Overwatch cuntwankas!" A high pitched voice yelled as Jackson drew near, and as he entered a clearing he saw his quarries for the first time.

One of them was of a slim variety, standing six feet, five inches tall with a rail-thin build, two piercing eyes and a wide grin that, combined with his greyed, wind-swept hair, resulted in a psychotic look. His right arm and leg were both mechanical, but they were crude and hastily made, not like the cybernetically enhanced ninja Genji. His leg for example, instead of imitating a human leg, was a crudely made peg-leg. His right mechanical forearm was rusted-looking and seemed to barely function, and the man overall looked like he hadn't bathed in years. His piercing eyes were red as blood, and his high-pitched voice had a thick Australian accent.

For a long moment Jackson panicked, for the co-conspirator to the scrawny Australian seemed to be nowhere in sight, until Jackson realized the co-conspirator in question was so large that for a moment Jackson had assumed his shadow was part of those of the trees. The man in question was massive, standing a staggering seven feet, three inches tall and sporting a gut so massive he had a tattoo of a pig's head in the center of his belly, and now that Jackson saw him, he couldn't help but wonder: how in the bloody hell did he not notice him there?! His hair, like the smaller man's, was shorter and grayed, albeit much closer to white, and was tied up in a small ponytail on top of his head. His face was hidden behind a black, hog-like mask, and he sported an armored vest that barely covered anything more than his shoulders, with his forearms garbed in fingerless gauntlets. His left hand was toting what looked like a bladed hook with a chain attached to it, and he was clearly disoriented by the rapid flashes of blue and bursts of gunfire seemingly coming from all directions. Tracer was circumnavigating the two Junkers rapidly and firing at them in bursts, irritating the larger man and seeming to outright piss off the smaller man.

"'Old still, ya wanka!" The smaller junker yelled, pulling out a frag grenade launcher. Jackson, reacting quickly fired several rapid shots at the launcher, knocking it from the smaller junker's hands. The crazed explosive fanatic whirled around and growled. "Wha', anotha one?! Ay, Road'og, take care o' dat, will ya?!" The massive Junker, evidently named Roadhog, turned towards Jackson with a rumbling growl.

"Welcome to your apocalypse." Roadhog declared in a deep rumbling growl, pulling out a massive gun that looked like it'd been assembled from multiple pieces of scrap metal. Jackson ducked behind a tree as Roadhog opened fire, several pieces of bark spraying everywhere as the projectiles hit the tree hard.

"Agh!" Jackson yelled out in pain as something sharp buried itself in his right bicep, and upon inspection found a sharp piece of metal protruding from his sleeve, blood dripping down his arm. "A shrapnel gun?!" He glanced back towards Roadhog as the massive man fired four rounds before stopping to reload his gun. Jackson, gritting his teeth to fight through the pain in his arm, began returning fire around the tree, multiple shots striking Roadhog's weapon damaging it severely. The massive Junker stumbled back, growling in pain as a few shots pierced his body.

"Motherfucker..." The massive man growled, but was then distracted as his partner unleashed a high pitched cackle-like giggle.

"Looks like Bluey ova dare ain't movin' so good now!" He declared, and Jackson, distracted, glanced around for Tracer. Her chronal accelerator had shorted out and was fizzing and crackling as it recharged, forcing the young woman to take cover. The maniacal junker pulled out a concussion mine and tossed it in her direction with a wicked cackle. "Now, 'ow 'bout you taste some o' dis!" Jackson was moving towards Tracer before the maniac even had to time to reload his frag grenade gun, knowing exactly what was about to happen before it did.

"Tracer, get down!" Seconds before the Junker fired the frag grenade, Jackson tackled Tracer to the ground and shielded her as the concussion mine went off, the blast knocking them both a few feet back, both of them miraculously only sustaining bruises and a few minor cuts from it. "Agh, that hurt..." Jack grunted as he tried to pull himself up, glance over at Tracer a few feet from him. "You alright, there Len-AGH!" His query as to Tracer's condition was suddenly cut off as Roadhog's hook flew by him, grazing him on the right side and resulting in a small spray of blood. Jackson clutched his side in agony as blood poured from the wound, falling on his left shoulder on the ground as he desperately tried to put pressure on the wound.

"Jackson!" Tracer instantly sprang into action, throwing a pulse bomb towards to the two Junkers as she tried to drag Jackson to cover. Not wasting time she immediately opened her comm channel to Overwatch HQ. "This is Tracer in Germany! Jackson is hurt bad, we need medevac immediately, repeat! Jackson is down, immediate medevac is needed!"

"Tracer, this is Morrison, what's his condition, over!" The Strike Commander's voice answered.

"Uhh..." she quickly looked Jackson over. "Foreign shrapnel bodies in the right arm, possible laceration in the right side above the hip, various cuts and bruises from a concussion mine...sir, he's hurt badly and I can't get him out of here alone, we need medevac immediately!"

"We're on our way, Tracer, sit tight!" Morrison cut the transmission as Tracer tried to drag Jackson behind cover.

"We don't take cover, you won't have to worry much longer..." Tracer heaved Jackson behind particularly large tree as her pulse bomb suddenly emitted a loud beeping noise.

"HOLY SHIT, THAT LITTLE THINGS A BO-" _Boom!_ The pulse bomb went off, knocking the smaller Junker back hard and into his hulking companion, who merely looked down at his smoldering companion.

"Pulse bomb, huh...you've had far worse that, Junkrat." Roadhog calmly said as he hauled his cohort to his feet.

"Holy fawkin' cock in anotha man's arse!" Junkrat swore as he brushed himself off. "Dose Overwatch wankas put up a fight, ay?!" He cackled maniacally as he glanced over to where the concussion mine exploded, seeing no trace of Jackson or Tracer. "Won't be seein' dem again, ay!" Without further ado he hopped back into the sidecar on Roadhog's motorcycle, which through all that had only procured a few fresh dents and scorch marks. Roadhog rolled his eyes behind his mask and mounted the bike, muttering something about Junkrat likely killing himself as he drove off, leaving Tracer and Jackson alone in the smoldering woods.

"Blast it, they're getting away!" Tracer stood up, her first impulse being to follow the two Junkers, but one look at Jackson, arm and side bleeding all over the ground as he tried desperately to cover the wounds, stopped her. If she left him now, he'd likely die, and she'd already compromised their ambush and mission. She wasn't about to leave Jackson to die as well. Trying to ease the pain a bit, Tracer propped Jackson up in a seated position, his grunts of pain almost rasping a little as he winced.

"The captain's not gonna be too happy about this..." Jackson managed out, groaning as his side spiked in pain. Tracer winced as she had a look at the shrapnel buried in his arm.

"I think you should get that removed, Jackson, it's not doing you any favors..." Tracer reached for it, but hesitated when Jackson cut her off.

"Not yet...if you take it out now, with nothing to patch it, I'll bleed even worse..." He groaned again as the pain intensified, numbing every nerve in his body.

"Hang in there, Jackson, help's on the way." Tracer removed her goggles for a moment and sighed, keeping an eye out for their airlift.

"Yeah...here's to hopin' I don't bleed out before they get here." Jackson remarked as he glared at Tracer sullenly. She had no response; there wasn't much she could say, really, after everything that went down. All she could do now was wait with him until their evac arrived. They didn't have to wait long, as less than an hour later, a royal blue jet appeared overhead, lowering towards the forest as the passenger bay opened up, with Reinhardt, now in full body armor, and Angela "Mercy" Ziegler, Overwatch's Swiss medical officer, dropped down towards the pair.

"Lena!" Mercy called down as she landed close by. "How is he?"

"He's still conscious, but barely..." Tracer replied as she helped Mercy get Jackson to his feet. "He's lost a good amount of blood..."

"I've 'ad worse..." Jackson mumbled as Mercy helped him, the swiss doctor chuckling a bit.

"Liar, you can barely stand." She remarked as ropes dropped from the hovering ship along with a stretcher. Mercy and Tracer quickly but carefully laid Jackson down on the stretcher, securing him to it as Mercy quickly patched up Jackson's wound in his side. "I'll have to give you a proper examination at headquarters."

"Lookin'...forward to it..." Jackson managed out, looking at Mercy with a small grin. She shook her head a sigh and a smile, floating alongside the stretcher as it was hoisted into the air towards the airship above them. As soon as they were inside, the massive vessel turned and took off towards Overwatch HQ, flying fast as speed was of the essence. Jackson groaned a bit as he laid there on the stretcher, and Mercy kneeled next to him, producing a pair of medical pliers.

"I'm sorry, Jackson, this is going to hurt..." Mercy narrowed her eyes in concentration as she gripped the shrapnel fragment that was lodged in his arm, slowly moving it back and forth to get it loose as Jackson groaned in pain. Mercy felt a slight twinge of regret for Jackson's pain as she slowly but surely worked the fragment loose, and after 10 agonizing minutes, it finally came out.

"Agh...fuck, that hurt..." Jackson groaned, Mercy giving him a disapproving look.

"Language, Jackson please." She wrapped a bandage around his arm's wound, Tracer watching with a raised eyebrow.

"Can't you just use your Caduceus Staff and heal him up in less than a minute?" Tracer inquired, looking at Mercy incredulously.

"I could, yes. But that shrapnel fragment looks as though it has goodness knows what kind of lethal bacteria all over it. Not to mention that laceration in his side might have been infected as well." Mercy pointed out. "I need to make sure his wounds are sterile first before I heal them up properly."

"Please...you just can't wait to see me with my clothes off-OW!" Jackson's quip was cut off as Mercy pressed his arm a bit hard, eliciting a groan of pain from the Scot.

"Keep dreaming, Jackson." Mercy gave him a coy smile as she cut off his flirtatious quip. "You never miss an opportunity to flirt even when you're laying on a stretcher and bleeding from two wounds."

"Not like...anyone can blame...me..." Jackson groaned out as Mercy rolled her eyes. Typical Jackson Lawrence, even when laid out and bleeding out, he liked to flirt with Overwatch's blonde, Swiss doctor.

"You have issues, Jack, seriously." Tracer remarked as she shook her head, giggling a bit at his antics.

"Says the girl...with an unlicensed particle stability...accelerator strapped to her bust..." Jackson groaned back, and Tracer laughed aloud at this.

"Got me there!"

"...who compromised the entire mission when she decided not to listen." He finished, managing to push himself up into a seated position as he glared angrily at Tracer. "I told you not to engage them, Tracer."

"Wha-are we really doing this now?!" Tracer glared back at him incredulously, unable to believe that Jackson was still giving her an ear-full even after everything else.

"Jackson, you shouldn't strain yourself." Mercy insisted, but he ignored her.

"You cost us a successful ambush, you cost us the mission, and now I'm laid up with two bloody open wounds!" Jackson growled. "I told you, we did not know which of them was the bomber, and we certainly didn't know one of them would be 7 feet tall with a shrapnel gun and a bloody chain hook!" He groaned as his pain spiked noticeably, but he tried to ignore it. "Thanks to you, both of us were very nearly killed!"

"I'm sorry, alright?!" Tracer shot back at him. "I know it was stupid, and I feel bad enough already that you're in this condition, can't you just lay off for two seconds?!"

"You're sorry?" Jackson glared at her as he leaned against the inner hull of the ship. "That's nice and all, but 'sorry' don't change what happened."

"Jackson, calm down." Mercy insisted, placing a hand on his chest and laying him back down. "You've strained yourself enough, you need to rest now."

"Ugh..." Jackson didn't resist as Mercy laid him back down. He didn't say anything more, but his anger and resentment towards Tracer was palpable, and Mercy knew he wasn't going to forget it anytime soon.

 **X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X**

 _Overwatch Headquarters - Medical Bay, 1 Hour Later_

"And...there we are. Good as new." Mercy declared, smiling widely as Jackson sat up, examining his arm and his side. He was now on a medical bed, having been given a thorough examination from Mercy to make sure his wounds hadn't been infected. "You should be good for field work again in a few days."

"Heh, thanks, Doc." Jackson grinned at the Swiss woman with a sly wink. "You certainly made my day, like you always do." Mercy chuckled and just shook her head.

"'Tis my job, Jackson, nothing more." She rolled her eyes a bit and floated over to where his clothes were, tossing them at him. "Now get dressed, before you catch a cold in here."

"Awww, I thought you liked seein' me shirtless!" Jackson grinned and winked as he flexed a little, and Mercy facepalmed as she tried to repress her laughter.

"You're hopeless, Jackson." She floated back over to the Scot and just stood with her hands on her hips in a sarcastically sassy manner. "What am I going to do with you..."

"Hopefully something with a happy ending, I'm sure." Jackson quipped with a wink, and at this comment Mercy turned vividly red as she caught his meaning. A moment later, the bottom end of her Caduceus Staff connected with the back of his head. "Ow!"

"That was not appropriate, Jackson Lawrence." Mercy said sternly.

"What, and everything else I said is? OW!" Jackson yelped again as Mercy once more clubbed him with her Caduceus Staff. Mercy sighed, taking a moment to compose herself before setting the staff aside and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"I know you mean no harm, Jackson, but I'm a medical officer. Everything I do here is purely professional." Jackson sighed a bit and looked down.

"Yeah, I know..." He sighed for a moment and put his shirt back on, standing up and grabbing his still torn up jacket. "Can't blame a man for at least tryin'." He turned and started walking out of the medical bay. "Thanks for fixin' me up. I'll see you later...maybe."

"Knowing you? Not even maybe." Mercy retorted, and Jackson smiled a bit before walking out of the medical and almost right into Ana, who stood outside the door with a knowing smile.

"...Captain." Jackson stated, blushing only a little as he realized she may have heard the entire exchange.

"Heh, you never fail to flirt with her, Jackson." She smiled knowingly. "When are you just going to ask her out, already?"

"Maybe when my attempts to aren't met with the bottom end of her Caduceus Staff." Jackson remarked as he continued walking, Ana walking next to him and laughing a little.

"What attempts? All I could see you doing in there is trying to get laid." She said it so bluntly and without missing a beat that Jackson turned vividly red as he realized what she said.

"I...I mean...you...uh, I don't..." He stuttered as Ana laughing merrily at his expense.

"Oh, you. I haven't seen someone blush that hard since Gérard proposed to that ballerina, what's her name, Amélie?" Ana smiled a bit as Jackson smiled a little sheepishly.

"Aye...how are those two doing, by the way?" Jackson smiled. He'd always been fond of Overwatch's French Agent Gérard Lacroix, and he'd been among the many guests at his wedding to a successful ballerina, Amélie. "Still going strong?" Ana laughed and flashed Jackson a wink.

"Last I spoke to him, he said she threw his knife into the wall and practically ordered him to...hehe, relieve her frustration." Jackson blushed and chuckled a bit nervously.

"Assertive type, is she?"

"More like a frustrated wife waiting at home for weeks at a time." Ana grinned knowingly. "Leave a woman waiting that long, and of course she'll pin you down."

"R-right..." Jackson was embarrassed to high heaven to be talking about marital sex with his commanding officer, a woman at that, who seemed to take great amusement in his embarrassment. For a moment the two of them walked in silence, simply enjoying each other's company before Jackson broke the silence by changing the subject. "So...how's Fareeha?"

"Oh, she's chipper as ever." Ana giggled a little. "Last week, she and Agent McCree put chili powder in Morrison's coffee when he wasn't looking."

Jackson laughed aloud at this. "I was wondering where that new rasp of his came from!" The two of them laughed together, Ana smiling widely at Jackson before patting his shoulder.

"I'm sure she'd be happy to see you again, it's been some time!" Jackson smiled at the captain warmly in response.

"I'll be sure to make some time for it, then." Ana smiled at this and gently patted his shoulder once again.

"Take some time to rest, Agent Lawrence. You've had a rough day, you deserve it."

"Thank you, Captain Amari." Jackson smiled and nodded respectfully.

"Please, Jackson, just call me Ana." She smiled charmingly. "No need to be so formal with me, it makes me feel old!" Jackson chuckled a bit.

"Right. I suppose I'll see you around then." Jackson returned her smile and proceeded to walk towards his resting quarters, stopping when Ana spoke to his back.

"You know, considering how many times you've gotten hurt on your jobs, I've thought about a possible codename for you, since you've deemed not to have one."

"Oh?" Jackson turned back towards Ana, thinking this was more than a bit of an odd reason to make a codename. "What did you have in mind?"

"I was thinking something along the lines of..." Ana stood and thought for a moment before smiling and pointing at his jacket.

"Crimson."


	3. The Black Widow's Unkillable Mate

**The Black Widow's Unkillable Mate**

 _Talon Headquarters, Location Undisclosed - 72 Hours After Mondatta's Assassination_

"So in short, the assassination succeeded, but you both were engaged by the enemy." Reaper's gravel-gargling voice was laced with obvious anger. "And neither of you killed the opponents you encountered?"

"Your perception of the blindingly obvious is impeccable, Reaper." Jack Crimson stated, sitting at a black conference table, his black visor removed so his demonic-looking cybernetic eyes were on display. Widowmaker reclined in a seat near his, examining her rifle nonchalantly.

"Le sarcasme n'est pas très sage maintenant, Crimson." Widowmaker casually remarked, and though a casual listener may not have understood her, both men in the room certainly did.

"Do. NOT. Get sarcastic with me right now, Crimson." Reaper growled angrily, slamming his fist onto the table and causing it to shake violently. Crimson simply raised an eyebrow at Reaper's angry outburst, not in the least intimidated by it, much less by Reaper himself.

"If you're trying to scare me, Reaper, I'm afraid the implementation of my cybernetic enhancements has left me unsusceptible to such emotions." He looked Reaper right in the eyes emotionlessly, his own cybernetic orbs not blinking even once as the monstrous terrorist leader glared daggers into him. "So why don't you just cut the shit and get right to the point."

"Oh mon! Cet homme a un sérieux nerf..." Widowmaker muttered to herself semi-sarcastically, looking from one man to the other, Reaper furious and glaring daggers into the half-cyborg who simply looked bored, his expression flat and unreadable.

"Fine then, I'll get to the point, you worthless half-man." Reaper snarled. "You encountered an obvious enemy, overpowered him, had the chance to kill him right then and right there, but deliberately chose not to, in short, _you left a loose end you worthless scrap pile!_ " Reaper looked ready to tear Crimson apart right then and right there. "A loose end that could just as easily come back to you-"

"Takhartha Zenyatta is a Shambali Monk like his late compatriot Mondatta." Crimson interrupted. "It's not in his 'nature', if you feel comfortable calling it that, to seek vengeance. He, like all the other omnic monks in the world, care more about harmony and tranquility than holding a grudge. Besides, the only reason I faced him in the first place was because I believed Widowmaker was compromised, and so took it on myself to complete the job." Crimson's eyes darted to Widowmaker for a moment before looking back at Reaper. "Since Widowmaker completed the job regardless, it was pointless to take him out either way. It would have contributed nothing whatsoever to the job's completion. If anything..." Crimson's eyes now focused on Widowmaker in earnest. "I'd be more worried about Widow's attacker than my own, if I were you."

Widowmaker's fell yellow orbs met Crimson's expressionless cybernetic stare and narrowed into a fierce glare that would have chilled a normal man into incapacitation. She hated being thrown under the bus in this fashion, regardless of the validity of Crimson's point. Particularly when as far as she was concerned, Tracer had posed no viable threat and in the end had been taken down resoundingly, even if she wasn't killed.

"And why would Widowmaker's assailant by any more of a loose end than yours, Crimson?" Reaper demanded ominously, black mist starting to form around his body as his anger intensified.

"Because her assailant was a former Agent from Overwatch." Crimson never broke eye contact with Widowmaker as they stared one another down. "In fact, her assailant was one of their most prominently recognized members."

"What's your point, Crimson?" Reaper growled.

"My point is that if anyone is likely to be a more dangerous loose end that may very well come back to bite, it's her." Crimson stated, and Reaper, backing off, turned to the purple skinned French sniper sitting a few seats away from the cybernetic Scot.

"Is he telling the truth, Widowmaker?" Reaper's tone was dangerous, and Widowmaker could clearly sense his building rage, though it clearly didn't bother her, not visibly at least.

"Oui, he is." She said it calmly enough, though a glance in Crimson's direction told him he'd be hearing from her later. Such a scorching glance didn't bother him any more than Reaper's mask did. If anything, Crimson was more intimidated by the prospect of her as an actual enemy than an angered cohort.

"Uuggh..." Reaper turned away from both of them, grabbing a chair and flinging it across the room so hard that it shattered upon contact with the wall. "This is on both of you. If either of your adversaries come back for revenge, don't expect assistance."

"As if you would ever willingly assist anyone if there wasn't any gain in it for you." Crimson retorted flatly as he stood up from the table. "Are we done here?"

"Ugh...both of you, get out." Reaper went into wraith form and in a cloud of black fog disappeared, leaving Crimson and Widowmaker alone in the room. Crimson, having taken his cure already, was well on his way out of the room by the time Widow realized Reaper was gone.

Widowmaker didn't hesitate for a second and was after Crimson in seconds. By the time she caught up with him he was in the hallways already, and without wasting a second, she delivered a blow to the side of his face that knocked him right to the floor, planting her left foot on his chest and pinning him down as she glared at him, wordlessly scorching him with her eyes.

"Huh. Caught up faster than I thought you would." Without missing a beat, Crimson grabbed her left ankle and yanked her foot up, throwing her off balance as he reverse-somersaulted to his feet. Widowmaker, despite being off balance used the momentum of her backwards lean and executed a ballerina-like flip, straightening back up as Crimson regarded her somewhat warily. "Is this because I threw you under the bus back there?"

"What do you think, connard?" Widowmaker emotionlessly replied, moving towards him once again. This time Crimson was ready for her, and at the last second moved aside, grabbing her left wrist and pulling her arm up behind her back as his free hand pressed into the middle of her back, pressing her against the wall.

"Never took you for the petty revenge type is all. I thought nothing bothered you." Crimson smirked as she glared back at him. "You don't feel."

"Va te faire baiser!" Widow snapped in French at him as she brought her legs back and kicked him savagely in the gut, causing him to loosen his grip enough so she could slip free. Not breaking momentum, Widowmaker roundhouse kicked Crimson in the chest, sending him into the opposite wall before grabbing her rifle, Widow's Kiss, and aiming it right between his eyes. For a moment, Crimson seemed stunned as she aimed directly at the one spot she knew would kill him if she pulled the trigger, but after a moment his face was flat as ever.

"So you're gonna kill me now?" He inquired, looking past the rifle and right into Widow's eyes. "Just because I got Reaper mad at you?"

"Tais-toi!" Widowmaker growled at him as she pressed the barrel right onto the tattoo on his forehead. Since he was 4 inches taller than her, she had to aim slightly up, but this didn't bother her in the slightest, as she'd taken down far bigger opponents. For a long moment they stood like this, Crimson's back to the wall, Widowmaker's rifle aimed right at his brain, one of them calm, the other angry.

"Are you sure you want to do that, Widow?" Crimson inquired, never once breaking eye contact with her, and not even slightly perturbed by having a high-powered sniper rifle aimed right at his head. "Are you _absolutely sure_ you really want to kill me right now?"

Widowmaker's anger seemed to intensify as she glared through her scope at him, her hands tightening on the deadly rifle as she pressed the barrel harder into his head, ensuring there'd be indentation on the skin afterwards. For a long tense moment, they simply stood there, staring one another down, and for a moment, Crimson thought Widowmaker was going to pull the trigger.

For the smallest second, Crimson thought he was about to die.

Than, Widowmaker muttered something to herself that sounded like, "L'enfer avec ça." A moment later, Widow's Kiss clattered to the floor and the French sniper closed the distance between them, planting her lips on Crimson's and wrapping her left arm around his neck while her right hand pressed to his chest. Crimson, though a little stunned for a moment, responded eagerly, his hands planting themselves on Widow's waist as he leaned into her aggressive kiss, returning it equally as aggressively. For an ecstatic moment the kiss sustained as they held one another as close to the other as possible before it parted, both of them panting slightly.

"That deprived, eh?" Crimson asked teasingly, panting a little bit as his forehead rested against hers.

"It's been weeks, you beau voyou." Widow replied, her tone lower and huskier now, her left hand caressing Crimson's face now. "Reaper has you out working too much."

"Same with you, you can't exactly talk-" Crimson started.

"Tais-toi et embrasses-moi." Widowmaker cut him off and planted her lips on his once more, her eyes closing as he returned it eagerly, his body warming as his arousal grew. Even Widow was starting to feel a small amount of heat as well, and as the second kiss parted, her left leg started rubbing up against Crimson's right leg, leaving no doubt as to what was about to happen.

"You don't think we should get somewhere more private?" Crimson inquired with a raised eyebrow. Widowmaker just smirked as she returned his gaze.

"We don't have to, but if you'd prefer?" Crimson smirked as she whispered this in his ear and one of his hands on her waist and lowered and latched to her ass.

"I think we ought to, but do me a favor."

"Hmmmm?" Widowmaker tilted her head ever so slightly.

"Try not to stab me this time, the last one took two weeks to fully heal, even with my cybernetics accelerating it." Crimson said flatly, and Widowmaker just chuckled, amused.

"Pas de promesses, chérie." She replied in a silky voice, and Crimson chuckled as they started moving down the hall, Widowmaker grabbing Widow's Kiss from the floor.

 **X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X**

 _3 Hours Later_

Jack laid on his left side, sighing a bit to himself and feeling no fatigue whatsoever from the three solid hours of sex with the purple French woman lying next to him, completely passed out. While he welcomed these occasions of love-making with Widowmaker, he never felt any real fulfillment from it. It felt empty and purely physical in nature, no real emotion involved, no real affection. It was nothing more than sex, and it may as well have been casualized as far as he was concerned.

Any normal man would likely kill to be in his position, after all, Widowmaker was bafflingly beautiful, even with purple skin and a stoic, expressionless persona that came off as condescending and cold, but in reality was simply the same as his own: emotionless. While Crimson himself could be unremittingly sarcastic on occasion to the point that Reaper or even Widowmaker herself would want to just end him on the spot, the fast is he never felt anything from it. He didn't feel anything at all for the most part. He felt anger, he felt disappointment, he felt satisfaction, he felt the excitement of combat, but almost nothing else.

Jack sat up on the bed, taking a moment to look at the woman next to him, laying completely naked and shamelessly uncovered on the sheets, passed out completely and sleeping soundlessly. He admitted that he felt something for Widowmaker, but it wasn't affection, let alone love. It was that of a comrade and nothing more. The sex was an added bonus in his mind, and perhaps in hers as well. She was his lover, but not his beloved.

In any case, it wasn't like she'd have outlasted him in the realm of sexual stamina. Jack's cybernetic enhancements regulated his blood sugar automatically, allowing him to never have to sleep or rest for any length of time. He was always awake, always active. Never tired, never in need of sleep, and only in need of the smallest nourishment to keep his organic parts as healthy as possible. As such, his lack of fatigue allowed him to outlast anyone in any physical contest, sexual intercourse very much included. Not the most useful benefit of cybernetic enhancement, but perhaps a welcome one nonetheless.

Jack grunted as he stood up, stretching a bit and popping his neck. It wouldn't do to remain there while there was still work to be done. Widowmaker wouldn't mind, he knew this. Taking a moment to admire her one more time in all her naked glory, Jack then got dressed, donning his back combat pants and black shirt, with a long sleeved, high-collared combat jacket over it. His boots her deep crimson with black buckles, and on his cybernetic hands he donned black gloves. He grabbed his guns and holstered them at his sides, and last of all grabbed his black visor shades. A moment later he exited the room, walking down the hall silently, with the intention of finding more jobs to do. He hadn't gone far before a familiar gravel-gargling growl spoke to his back.

"I'm not sure how I feel about the two of you." Reaper stated flatly, leaning against the wall and looking straight ahead of him, knowing Crimson would stop and answer. which he did.

"Why's that?" He didn't turn to face Reaper, but he didn't have to. The edge in his voice spoke volumes enough of his irritation.

"Does she know who you are? Or were?" Reaper inquired, turning to glare at Crimson's back. "Is she aware of how much _you_ know about _her_?"

"If she did, you could guarantee we wouldn't be having this conversation." Crimson replied flatly. "She'd have killed me already."

"And what's going to happen should this whole thing go south?" Reaper growled. "I already have to deal with _one_ snarky attitude around here, and Widow's bad enough without an incentive to be angry-"

"I'm going to stop you right there, _Reyes._ " Crimson growled, angry now himself, and he turned to face Reaper fully.

"What did you just-" Reaper never finished.

"Shut the fuck up." Crimson stepped closer towards Reaper and stared him right in the eyes, his visor removed so Reaper could see his. "Let's get one thing straight here. I'm not an Overwatch Agent. I'm not a soldier. I'm not some hired goon for Talon. I'm a contract killer. You pay, I kill, there's no alternative." Crimson's eyes narrowed dangerously. "The only reason I continue working for your sorry excuse for a terrorist organization is because the payment is substantial. And as long as you continue to pay me, you won't have a fucking thing to worry about." For a moment Crimson paused before addressing Reaper's issue. "As for me and Widowmaker? Put it this way. I have no intention of using that to any advantage, and she wouldn't allow me to anyway. She, like me, feels no emotion."

"Fine then." Reaper snarled. "Then tell me this, _Jackson_ , if Widowmaker won't incite any funny business from you, then what will? Considering how much you know about both me and her, how do I know you won't put bullets in both our heads the moment you're offered money to kill us?"

"Let me put this in a way you'll understand, Reyes." Crimson drew one of his guns and aimed it right between Reaper's eyes. "A contract is a contract, and I stick to it. But the moment you decide my contract expires, will be the day _you_ expire. I have more than enough reasons to kill you that don't involve money." For a long moment it seemed Reaper would attack Crimson, his anger palpable and suffocating, but then, he seemed to smirk.

"Then we have an understanding, Crimson." Reaper replied eerily calmly.

"Good." Crimson holstered his pistol and stepped back. "Anything else you want to bother me with?"

"Yes, actually." Reaper's smirk was audible now; he liked Crimson's attitude now. "I have a job in Mexico for you."

"What sort of job?" Crimson inquired irritably.

"Recruitment." Reaper replied. "There's a hacker there who may prove useful. Whoever it is, they toppled the local government by spreading their dirty secrets online, and then permanently disabled their security. The revolution was, shall we say, quite a sight. Someone with that sort of talent could be invaluable for Talon. In the meantime, Widowmaker and I have located Doomfist's gauntlet and plan on extracting it from its current holding location."

"And what if this hacker decides they don't want to join?" Crimson inquired, feeling he knew what the answer was.

"Kill them." Reaper replied.

"Understood."


	4. A Family In All But Blood

**A Family In All But Blood**

 _Overwatch Headquarters - 36 Hours After The Stuttgart Incident_

"Thank the fucking lord that's finally over with..." Jackson walked out of Strike Commander Morrison's office after having finally finished filling out the mission report for the Stuttgart Incident. It never failed to aggravate him whenever he had to fill out mission reports for every single mission he was ever sent on, without question it was his least favorite part of being in Overwatch. Thankfully, it was a necessary evil since it was dwarfed by everything else he enjoyed. Since he still had a couple days before he'd be able to get back out in the field, Jackson was taking time for R&R however possible, though the process of the mission report was, to say the least, aggravating to no end, and as such he'd intentionally put it off for nearly a day before finally getting it done. Not that Morrison at all bought Jackson's excuse of a migraine in the wake of a rough (failed) mission, but it was what it was either way. Now, with the annoying part out of the way, Jackson finally had some time on his hands, and he knew precisely what to do first.

He navigated the labyrinthine hallways of the Overwatch Headquarters, making his way past the meeting room and towards the living quarters on the far side. It was a lengthy walk, but he had the time, and he was fine taking as long as he needed. After all, he wasn't going anywhere for a few days, so why not enjoy the relaxation time while he had it? His walk happened to take him by the training area, and, hearing noise inside he stopped to look in, walking onto the control bridge to observe.

Genji Shimada was inside, in a combat-ready stance as training drones surrounded him, and for a moment he remained perfectly still, his mostly cybernetic body perfectly relaxed and unmoving. The drones activated, their visual sensors glaring red as they opened fire on Genji. Geni didn't hesitate even for a moment, drawing his short sword smoothly and dashing head-on into the fray. The drones dropped like flies in a bug zapper, each and every one of them falling to his blade, yet for each drone that fell, another took its place. This didn't bother Genji in the least, and the more drones that appeared, the harder he fought, taking them down relentlessly, never tiring and never slowing down. Jackson, watching from the observation bridge, grinned to himself as he walked over to the training settings, located on a panel nearby.

"Taking down the floating drones is nice and all...but let's try somethin' a bit bigger, shall we?" Jackson grinned as he pressed a few buttons, and then the confirmation button that appeared via hologram in front of him, stepping back and grinning as he watched. As Genji cut down the last of the flying drones, the floor shook, and a gigantic bipedal tank drone appeared, its cannons aimed squarely at Genji as he leapt back to gain some footroom. Analyzing the threat, Genji took a low stance, slowly reaching for the katana on his back as he summoned every ounce of energy he had in reserve. Jackson's eyes widened as he realized what was about to happen.

"RYUJIN NO KEN O KURAE!" Genji shouted at the top of his lungs as he drew the glowing green blade, and at blinding speed dashed towards the massing tank drone, launching himself high in the air. For a moment time seemed to slow down as Jackson watched Genji intently, his blue eyes never once blinking. He couldn't miss a single second of this if he wanted to. A moment later, Genji executed a downward slash, and Jackson's eyes widened as he could have sworn he saw a massive green dragon appear, and as Genji landed on the ground behind the tank drone, the massive machine split down the middle and fell to the ground, split cleanly in half. Slightly dazed from he'd just seen, Jackson ended the training session and then walked out into the training area.

"You know, of all things I expected you to do against that thing, summoning a green spirit dragon and bisecting it was _definitely_ not one of them." Jackson remarked as Genji turned towards him.

"Jackson." He said in calmly enough, though he seemed a tad annoyed. "If you are curious as to the extent of my skill, perhaps a more up-close and personal demonstration is required." Jackson immediately went wide-eyed.

"Noooooo, nonononononononono, I'm perfectly fine thanks!" Jackson raised his hands in a defensive gesture, a sweatdrop running down the back his neck.

"Your actions would say otherwise." Genji regarded Jackson as calmly as ever. "Perhaps you yourself should train in swordplay. It may widen your abilities as a combatant in the future."

"Well, as I like to say..." Jackson drew one of his sidearms and spun it expertly around his trigger finger with a wide grin. "Fancy swordplay and super-advanced technology and cybernetics are no match for a few bullets in your skull."

"That may be so, but even a most skilled gunman may find himself engaged in close quarter combat sooner or later." Genji replied, seeming to smile now himself.

"The soldier who taught me how to use a gun taught me martial arts as well, Genji." Jackson's grin never wavered. "It comes to that, my enemy will be disarmed before they can say 'die!'"

"I certainly admire your confidence, Jackson." Genji stated sincerely. "I pray that it never fails you should you face such an adversary."

"I certainly appreciate the sentiment." Jackson smiled and nodded in thanks.

"So where are you headed to?" Genji sheathed his katana and stretched a bit.

"I promised Captain Amari I'd stop by the living area. Fareeha arrived earlier this week, and I promised I'd go see her." Jackson smiled.

"Well, don't let me keep you." Genji certainly sounded like he was smiling now, and Jackson's smile widened as he bowed respectfully to Genji before turning and leaving the training area, feeling a little more upbeat than before as he walked out of the training area, resuming his walk towards the living quarters. He'd always had respect for the Shimada warrior, and being complimented by him only increased that respect. Genji was no novice, not by a long shot, and Jackson readily conceded that his abilities far outweighed his own in terms of combat. Yet he was humble, and never once allowed his abilities to make him overconfident or cocky.

Jackson's smile never wavered as he made his way across the base, stretching as he arrived at Ana's living quarters. He almost hit the buzzer right off the bat, but then remembered something, his smile turning into a grin as he flattened himself against the wall next to the door, hitting the buzzer once and then waiting.

"Habibti, can you see who that is?" He heard Ana's voice, albeit muffled, inside the apartment, and he grinned as he waited a few moments. The door slid open, and a young Egyptian girl no older than 12 walked out, looking around in slight confusion as she tried to locate the source of the buzzer, and as she walked a little further out, Jackson grinned and placed his index and middle fingers right on top of the girl's head, causing her to freeze up for a moment.

"Forgot to check your corners, Fareeha." Jackson said with a grin, and the girl immediately brightened up and whirled around, throwing herself at Jackson and hugging him as tightly as she could.

"Jacksooooon!" She squealed excitedly, hugging the Scot happily as Ana stepped out to see what was going on, smiling widely when she saw what was going on.

"Well then, look who decided to show up!" She declared with a smile as Jackson grinned at her, hugging Fareeha tightly.

"Oh, my God, Fareeha, look at you!" He grinned as he beheld the girl with wide eyes. "You're huge!" Grinning widely he looked over at Ana with wide eyes. "What in the blue blazes are you feeding her, Ana?!" The Captain laughed at Jackson's playfully incredulous query before returning his wide grin with one of her own.

"Hard to keep track of _every_ meal, but this afternoon we're having shawarma." Ana smiled and walked over to hug Jackson once Fareeha had finished, smiling up at him warmly. "You're welcome to stay if you please, Jackson."

"I'd love to, thank you!" His smile remained as wide as ever as Ana waved him into the apartment, heading into the kitchen to check the meat she had cooking on a vertical spit over a very hot heating element. Jackson entered as well, smiling as he looked around with the still excited Fareeha at his heels chattering about this and that and such and such, often switching between English and Arabic out of habit. Jackson smiled as he entered the kitchen where Ana was and then raised an eyebrow at the method of which she was cooking the meat. The kitchen was hot and stuffy from the open element, and it felt as though it had been on the entire day. "Are...you sure you've got that right, Ana?"

"Yes, I've done this before." Ana assured him as she slowly turned the meat over the heating element. The meat looked quite cooked through, with no visible trace of fat or juices on it.

"Is...that how you cook shawarma?" Jackson inquired, still eyeing the spit quizzically.

"Yes, you roast it!" Ana nodded with a smile, occasionally adding some seasoning to the meat, which looked like beef, as she turned it.

"So...why not use a crock pot, that'll roast it thoroughly..." Jackson suggested.

"Because roasting in a crock pot would just extract the juices out of the meat and into the broth and gravy around it." Ana replied. "Shawarma is typically cooked on a spit because this ensures that the meat absorbs the juices and thus the flavor more thoroughly." She smiled at Jackson warmly. "You cook it like this for up to a day, and the slow cooking makes sure it's nice and tender. After that, you shave off very very thin slices, and you can wrap it in pita bread, naan bread, a tortilla, anything that can be wrapped around it along with vegetables and sauces of your choice!" Hearing her explain how it was made was making Jackson's mouth start to water.

"Wow..and you've been at this _all day?_ " Jackson looked at her wide-eyed as the implication set in.

"Well, since early this morning, Morrison had me up ridiculously early to discuss Gérard's next target for his Talon investigation. After that I had hours of time with nothing to do. So I decided to make use of it."

"No jobs for you today, eh?" Jackson watched her work closely, removing his jacket due to the heat.

"Oh, there's always work to be done, but thankfully nothing so urgent that it needed to be done today." Ana replied, still focused on the cooking but very much enjoying her conversation with Jackson while Fareeha was doing what appeared to be homework in the living room. "So I thought I'd take some time to make something I haven't made for a long while."

"Well, you're certainly dedicated to it." Jackson remarked as he looked around the kitchen. "Anything you want me to help with?"

"You...?" Ana looked at him directly now, sounding legitimately surprised by the offer.

"Well, yes! I'm here, aren't I? Not exactly about to sit around my thumb up me a-" he instantly cut himself off before he let the swear word slip, making a quick glance in Fareeha's direction before changing direction mid-word. "-aaaaaaaa-ppendix."

"Good save." Ana mouthed this suppressing a giggle before replying. "Well, if you wouldn't mind grabbing the pita out of the pantry and warming it in the toaster oven, that would be quite helpful!"

"Right away, ma'am!" Jackson immediately went over to the pantry, spotting the pita immediately and grabbing it, warming up the toaster oven as he counted six pita flats. Ana couldn't help but watch how focused Jackson got as he sprang into action to help. He wasn't doing so because she asked him, or because she was his commanding officer. He was helping her for no other reason than he cared. He simply cared. He needed no other reason, and was happy to help her regardless.

"Alright, now," Ana declared as she stopped turning the meat, "To shave it." Jackson grinned and as he set the pitas to warm, he grabbed a nearby carving knife, sharpening it quickly before proceeding to slice off near-razor thin portions of meat with near expert precision. Ana couldn't help but stop what she was doing and just watch him slice away at the beef, admiring his focus and his determination to get it just right. She almost shook her head in disbelief at how much he actually knew what he was doing. She'd known this young Scot for three years now, and yet he still found ways to amaze her.

"I think this ought to be enough for all three of us to have at least two wraps each." Jackson declared as he finally set down the knife, sweat pouring from his brow due to his concentration. Ana quickly grabbed a white hand towel and proceeded to dab his sweaty brow gently, smiling warmly at him. Jackson couldn't help but blush a little as Ana wiped the sweat from his forehead, feeling slightly embarrassed that she would do so. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the gesture or the kindness from it, it was just an odd feeling to have someone who obviously cared so much to do so, especially when this person was his commanding officer. This one gesture made it easy to see why the other Overwatch agents respected Ana so much. She treated them like family, like her own, and not like people to command. Morrison was the soldier in both occupation and mind, but Ana felt something more personal for the members of the organization she helped establish. Twenty years at Overwatch had given her a worldly perspective few had, and Jackson could see how much she really cared as she folded the towel and dropped it in a nearby hamper. "Th-thanks..."

"Oh, it's nothing, Jackson." She smiled widely as she removed the pita from the toaster oven, the flat breads now a warm, toasty brown.

"No, I mean..." Jackson hesitated for a moment as Ana turned to look at him in slight confusion. "...thank you for everything. I never really knew what a family felt like before you brought me here, so...thank you." Jackson managed a small smile as Ana turned towards him fully, her expression soft and caring as she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Overwatch is as much my family as Fareeha is, Jackson." Ana smiled warmly, looking the Scot is his blue eyes. "You included. I can honestly say that in the 20 years I've been in Overwatch, I've never met someone quite like you." Her smile was one of slight amusement now. "I've known you for three years, and you still manage to find ways to surprise me."

"Not intentionally..." Jackson chuckled a bit awkwardly. _I'm never this awkward, what's wrong with me?_

"Heh, who ever does?" Ana asked cheerily, and she and Jackson shared a chuckle, enjoying one another's company and very much enjoying the conversation now.

"Fair enough, fair enough." Jackson smiled as he stretched a little, fanning himself a bit. "Do you need any more help?"

"No, that's fine, I'll have them all ready before long." Ana smiled and nodded in thanks. "Please, relax!"

"Of course, if you need anything else, I'll be in the living room." He smiled as he turned to exit the kitchen, but then for a moment turned back towards Ana. "Ana?" Hearing her name she turned towards him once more, a quizzical expression on her face.

"What is it...?"

"Again...thank you." Jackson smiled sincerely at Ana, his heart warming as she returned it. Ana stopped what she was doing for a moment and walked over to Jackson, giving him a tight, almost motherly hug that he returned more gently.

"You don't have to thank me, Jackson." She said softly.

"I'm still going to though." Jackson smiled as Ana laughed softly and shook her head a bit as the hug parted.

"Oh, you." Ana playfully shoved him as she went back into the kitchen to finish prepping the wraps. "You know, it's nice having someone around to help with everyday things like this." Jackson smiled as he leaned against the door frame to a the kitchen a bit.

"Well, you know I'm always happy to help, Ana." He smiled widely as she prepped the shawarma wraps, casing them in tin foil to keep them warm.

"Heh, good. Now go sit down already."

 **X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X**

 _Later That Evening_

Jackson stretched a bit as he exited Ana's apartment, smiling as he turned back to see her in the doorway. After the shawarma had been prepared and eaten, Jackson had spent some time with Fareeha, and had found himself laughing repeatedly as Ana had gone out of her way to embarrass the girl, much to her chagrin and Jackson's amusement, only to turn around and embarrass Jackson as well. It had been an enjoyable afternoon, and as evening feel, Jackson found himself on his way out.

"Thanks for having me, Ana." He smiled widely as he stretched a bit.

"It was our pleasure, Jackson." Ana returned his smile. "Any time you want to come by, feel free."

"I will do, I will do." Jackson donned his jacket and looked himself over for a moment. "You know, I was a little on the fence with the codename you thought of, but thinking it over, it has a nice ring to it. Rolls off the tongue, nice and easy."

"I knew you'd warm up to it." Ana's smile never wavered. "It suits you, especially with that jacket."

Jackson laughed at this. "Please, you've always hated my jacket. I first wore it and you called me a walking cherry."

"Well, you look like one, for goodness sakes!" Ana laughed and Jackson laughed with her. For moment they regarded one another, both of them smiling and then Jackson nodded to Ana.

"I'll see you later, then." Jackson turned and proceeded to walk down the hall, feeling happy that he enjoyed himself with Ana and Fareeha, but feeling a bit down that it was over. He still had another day left, and he had no idea how he was going to spend it, especially after having already used his opportunity to see Ana and Fareeha. He was so lost in thought that he nearly ran right into Gérard Lacroix. "Oh! Sorry!"

"Aucun problème du tout, my friend." The frenchman smiled, regarding Jackson with respect. Jackson and Gérard had worked closely on several Talon Stings, and they'd become friends after a particular close call where each had saved the life of the other. Since then, Jackson had become friends with the Frenchman, and had been present when Gérard had proposed to his wife, Amélie, a professional ballerina who had also became a friend of his since meeting her. "How are you this fine evening?"

"Eh, no complaints here. Spent the afternoon with Ana and Fareeha, had lunch and everything." Jackson smiled as he shook Gérard's hand.

"Ah, that sounds like a lovely afternoon indeed." Gérard grinned a bit and winked. "You and Ana certainly spend a lot of time together, no? Perhaps there's something going on there you're not telling-"

"Nooooooooooooooooooooo, nonononononononononononono!" Jackson instantly cut him off. "You got it all wrong, mate, Ana's just a close friend. She's also considerably older, Gérard, and has a daughter, I'm not exactly in the same, uh, range..."

"Doctor Zeigler's older than you too, but you never miss an opportunity to flirt, eh?" Gérard's grin was wider than ever.

"Look, I...I mean, you...Uh..." Jackson was stumped there and he knew it, and so Gérard, who burst into laughter at his expense.

"Come now, mon ami, you can't wait forever!" Gérard declared. "If you like her that much, then just ask her on a date already!"

Jackson's expression turned down as he remembered Angela's rebuttal the previous day. "She's...too caught up in her work to consider dating, Gérard. She takes her profession very seriously, it's why none of us ever see her outside the medical clinic."

"Oh, come now, why would that stop you? Where's that confident Scot that I know you are?" Gérard scoffed, raising an eyebrow in a knowing manner.

"He went out on a mission and got shrapnel in his arm and a laceration in the side, why d'you think I'm not in the field?" Jackson grinned widely now.

"Un absurdité, mon ami. I watched you take a twelve gauge in the back, and you still were able to go on mission the next day!" Gérard declared.

"Twelve gauge buckshot isn't exactly a 4 inch metal fragment infected with god knows what buried halfway in your arm." Jackson replied. "Nor is it a metal hook the size of a compact refrigerator slicing your side open and making you bleed everywhere."

"Alright, you've got me there." The two men shared a laugh, and Gérard clapped Jackson on the back. "You should visit us in France sometime, I'm sure Amélie will be happy to see you again, yes?"

"Aye, how is she? Career going strong?" Jackson grinned.

"Strong as ever, she has a production of, I believe it's _Swan Lake_ coming soon, she'll be busy with rehearsals, no doubt." Gérard elaborated. "She'll welcome the opportunity to see you again, I'll wager. She asks about you sometimes!"

"Does she?" Jackson was a little taken aback by this. "Well then, guess I'll have to swing by France next time I'm out!"

"Merci, my friend." Gérard bowed politely. "Now if you'll excusez-moi, Morrison has something to talk about with me. I will see you another time!"

"Aye, take it easy, mate." Jackson smiled as he waved to his comrade, continuing his walk across the base as he thought a bit on Gérard's assertion about Mercy. _I guess he has a point, I can only wait so long before I have to ask her at some point. Though, when should I? Knowing her, I'll have a hard time of just getting her alone long enough to ask her, she's never without a patient._

He sighed to himself as he continued walking. _I guess I'll find out soon enough...though I'll likely wait til tomorrow._

 _For now...I think I'll take up Genji's offer._


	5. Infiltrating Hel

**The Dorado Reconnaissance Part 1: Infiltrating Hel**

 _Overwatch Headquarters - 60 Hours After The Stuttgart Incident_

 _He can't move. He can't see. His mind and body are numbed by pain. Everything hurts. He can feel blood everywhere, on his face, on the floor beneath him. He can smell smoke, there must be a fire somewhere. Alarms are blaring deafeningly, and distant explosions tear through the cacophony pounding his ear drums. His arms won't move. His eyes won't open. He can hear gunfire and yelling. People need his help! He tries to move, but only his left leg seems able to function. He tries harder, and finds himself overwhelmed by frustration and anger, desperation bringing tears to eyes that won't open, mixing with the blood on his face as he tries to move with futility. The alarms are louder, and more are joining them, and one is louder than all the others. High-pitched, like a buzzsaw with a killswitch, and growing ever louder and louder in his ears, deafening him, shutting out all other sounds until..._

Jackson's eyes snapped open, and he shot up into a seated position on his bed. Next to him, his alarm blared into his right ear, the high-pitched buzzsaw-like noise echoing in the room as his right hand slammed onto it, shutting it off. Sweat was pouring from his brow as the sensations of what had to have been a terrible nightmare lingered in his mind. He'd never felt that before, such a feeling of total helplessness, with all that chaos surrounding him and he being unable to do anything to help the people screaming in the background.

"What _was_ that?" He wondered aloud. He voice was shaking, his breathing unsteady as he wiped some sweat from his brow. His heart was pounding like a jackhammer, threatening to burst out of his ribcage like a frag grenade without a pin. Shaking himself to clear his head, he got out of his bed and stumbled to his restroom, taking a moment to look at himself in the mirror. His eyes were puffy and slightly red, his complexion a little paler than normal, and he noticed that he was shaking a little. It was as though he'd just caught the flu, only without the 100 degree fever that came with it, and without the nasal cavity infections.

Jackson breathed in and let out a long, shaky exhale. He hadn't experienced a nightmare like that in years, and this one had felt exponentially worse. The horror hadn't been visual, but auditory. Sensory. Olfactory. Everything but visual. That had been the worst part of it. He hadn't seen what was happening, and this left so much to his imagination. To say the least, much of what he was imagining involved things no one would ever want to see become a reality.

As it happened, there was work to be done. Jackson's period of off-time was up, and field work was his priority for the day. How long it'd take, he didn't know for certain, but that didn't matter. Field work was field work, period. Not every mission involved combat, as he was well aware, and sometimes Overwatch Agents served as glorified security guards for important people, such as political leaders and leading scientific authorities and similarly important people. It wasn't always diving in headfirst, guns blazing, and getting your friends shot in the ass.

Jackson shook himself, walking into his main apartment and switching on the light, sleepily starting a pot of coffee as he rubbed his eyes, trying to wake up properly. He'd never been a morning person to begin with, and having to wake up early most days just messed with him at times. He'd love sleeping later, preferably with a beautiful woman lying next to him, if it were possible to do so. But then again...

Despite resolving to try asking out Angela the previous day, he'd never found the opportunity. Blackwatch had returned from their recent excursion and to put it lightly, there'd been a line. He never once found the waiting area unoccupied, and as such after nearly 2 solid hours of leaving and checking back, Jackson had eventually given up. It had bummed him out without question, but then, when he'd thought on it, he'd had no idea what he would have said anyways. He was terrible with this sort of thing, and it was baffling to think about considering how easy it was to flirt.

The first sip of dark coffee rejuvenated Jackson's energy almost immediately, and he immediately began preparing himself for field work, setting out a long table of supplies he would need for any coming job: food rations, water canteens, boxes of ammunition, empty magazine cartridges, and at the very end, his two chrome plated sidearms. As he drank his coffee he began loading his magazines with ammunition, specifically .44 rounds that he himself made specifically for his sidearms, which were loaded with magnum chambers for maximum stopping power. Simply put, Jackson's firearms were powerful enough to take a man's head off. He preferred it that way, since in the event of a gun fight, whoever or whatever he hit was not likely to get up again, unless they were omnics, in which case they'd likely get back up even after several rounds.

With his magazines full, his guns loaded and his supply bag filled, Jackson got dressed in his normal garb, strapping on his gear and heading out. His first destination was the training area, as he intended to brush up on his marksmanship and make sure he was still fresh, after which he would head to the Meeting Room. He never reached his first destination, and was stopped halfway there by Torbjorn.

"Oi, Jackson!" The Swedish dwarf yelled after him, running up to him as fast as possible. "Hold there!"

Jackson stopped and turned towards the engineer, nodding in greeting. "Torbjorn, what is it?"

"Strike Commander Morrison, Captain Amari, and Lieutenant Reinhardt want you in the Meeting Room, immediately." Torbjorn replied. "They have a very important job for ya!"

"I'm on my way." Jackson immediately changed course and began moving towards the meeting room with haste. If the three Top Officers of Overwatch were personally requesting him, it was definitely a serious matter, and Jackson wasn't going to waste time. It didn't take him long to reach the room, and upon entering, walked over to the holotable. "Jackson, reporting."

"Jackson, thanks for coming on short notice." Morrison nodded to Jackson, immediately gesturing to Reinhardt, who shut the room off without any hesitation.

"What's going on?" Jackson looked from one officer to the other.

"Jackson, whatever we say cannot leave this room." Ana said gravely, and the other two nodded in agreement before she continued. "We have an important job for you, and it's imperative we act quickly." Morrison walked forward and brought up a holographic map of California.

"The last several months have seen a staggering spike in gang activity in Los Angeles." He began. "What originally started as a series of local takeovers is now running the risk of becoming a statewide incursion by the gang known as Los Muertos." Morrison then displayed an image of several rowdy-looking gang members with neon skull-like tattoos on their heads with matching rib cage and arm bone tattoos on their torsos and bared arms. "This gang started as a local group in Dorado, Hollywood but late last year started spreading over into neighboring areas as well. At first it was considered to be little more than a local turf war, but recent months have proven otherwise." Morrison then pressed a button and a small area of the California map, encompassing Hollywood and the entirety of Northwest Los Angeles, was highlighted in red. "This was their area of influence from earlier this year. And this..." He pressed another button and the red highlight quadrupled in size, spreading East and South, swallowing up Los Angeles, all the way to San Diego near the Border of Mexico. "...is their area of influence as of yesterday." Jackson's eyes widened in shock as he beheld the scope of the gang's spread.

"How...how'd they spread that fast?!" Jackson exclaimed in disbelief.

"That's what has us so concerned." Ana put in. "This gang as of last year were little more than local thugs selling drugs and guns on the streets."

"And now they're the most powerful gang in the state of California." Morrison stated gravely. "Should this continue, they could spread into Mexico and even into other states, and you don't need me to tell you how bad a disaster that would be." Jackson shook his head, his eyes narrowed at the map before him.

"We need to find out exactly _how_ this gang grew so powerful." Ana elaborated, gravely looking over the red area. "And we need to do so quickly before they spread any further."

"That's where you come in, Jackson." Morrison said. Jackson looked at each of them seriously before posing a question.

"Is Blackwatch aware of this? Sounds like something they'd look into." Morrison and Ana looked at one another as though they'd been expecting this question, and Morrison answered.

"Blackwatch sustained heavy casualties on their last Talon Sting. Commander Reyes is still seeing to his team and making sure they're all sound. In any case, Blackwatch will need time to recover before heading out into the field. You, meanwhile, are one of our best stealth operatives on offer." Ana nodded in agreement.

"Your recon mission in Norway was a key factor if Blackwatch's investigation in the area. If you can collect information on Talon Operations in Norway, I'm confident you can do this." Ana smiled reassuringly, but Jackson wasn't wholly convinced yet.

"This isn't exactly the same. You're talking about a street gang who know their own when they see them, and comparing them to a terrorist organization that I infiltrated disguised as one of their goons. Los Muertos may be little more than street thugs, but they're very organized, well armed, and as the map indicates, widespread street thugs. You don't spread that far without being shrewd and calculating, unless..." It suddenly dawned on him why they were seeing this as such an important mission. "...unless they're being influenced by someone else."

"Precisely." Ana nodded, looking very serious indeed. "We believe that someone's been helping them, and it's imperative that we find out for certain if this is the case, and, if it _is_ the case, who's really pulling the strings here." Jackson nodded in agreement, fully understanding now.

"It won't be easy." He leaned forward a little studying the Dorado area of the map. "I'd have to infiltrate Dorado itself, and that's Los Muertos Central. My best option of getting in would be from the North." He pointed out several smaller outlying cities surrounding the L.A. Area to the north. "Since they've been spreading entirely southward and eastward in the last several months, it's likely they're focusing on continuing that spread, and if they were to spread into Tijuana, it'd be a bloodbath all around."

"You think you could disguise yourself as one of them?" Morrison inquired.

"Not likely. The majority of the gang is hispanic, I'd stick out like a sore thumb, plus their omnic members would recognize an Overwatch agent anywhere. My best option is to stay out of sight completely." Jackson thought it over several times before deciding on a plan. "I'll fly in over L.A. in an unmarked aircraft. As long as the local government knows it's us, they won't bother with it. I'll land about 10 miles out and make my way in from there. After I enter the L.A. Area, my comm will be traceable, so I'll have to deactivate it once I'm in. From there I'll make my way into Dorado and find out what I can from whatever I can. It may take me several days, maybe more. If I'm discovered, violence _will_ break out. Los Muertos are notoriously territorial."

"If it comes to that, only kill if it's unavoidable." Morrison responded. "This is a recon mission. We want to avoid violence however possible. But should it come to that, don't fire unless fired upon."

"Understood, sir. I'll depart in an hour." Jackson nodded to each of them and left the meeting room, each of the Overwatch leaders looking at one another.

"Are you sure about this, Jack?" Reinhardt looked at Morrison somewhat warily. "It would be disastrous if he failed."

"He won't." Ana put in, looking at the doorway Jackson had just walked out of. "He hasn't yet. And we have no reason to believe he will now."

"I hope you're right, Ana." Morrison looked the Egyptian woman in the eyes. "It'll mean our asses if he does."

 **X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X**

 _Dorado, Los Angeles, California, U.S.A. - 5 Hours Later_

Jackson slowly moved his way through an alleyway, keeping as silent as possible to avoid detection. The heat of the Californian summer was suffocating, with the concrete and asphalt surfaces making the surrounding area feel like a gigantic oven. Jackson, being from Scotland and not at all used to the high heat of the American summer, was covered in sweat from head to toe, cursing himself for wearing a leather jacket. _Fuck this goddamned heat..._

As he'd suspected, Dorado was very much Los Muertos Central, and everywhere he looked he saw their members, their distinctive body tattoos sticking out even in broad daylight. The LAPD didn't bother with them; they knew who really ran the city. Between drug trafficking, illegal weaponry, and more members than a mafia family and enough armed personnel to occupy every street corner in the city if necessary, the police were inordinately outnumbered and outgunned. It was no wonder that the recent aggressive spread in territorial control had been a cause of concern for the commanding officers of Overwatch, especially since the enormous arsenal the gang possessed hinted at the possibility of all-out anarchy should a local political figure piss them off. The situation was more delicate than Jackson had initially thought, however, as he'd realized upon infiltrating their central area of activity in Dorado.

Los Muertos were widespread and diverse, but they weren't organized. Not in the same way Talon or Overwatch themselves were, in any case. They were too rowdy, too street-oriented. They were a gang, not an insurgency or a mafia family. As Jackson saw infiltrating the area, the gang fought amongst themselves often, and despite having omnic members, anti-omnic sentiment was heavy in the group's ranks, and some human members actually went out of their way to attack omnic civilians on the street, in broad daylight, no less. They weren't discriminatory about it either. It was a double standard that threatened to tear the gang apart should the omnics have an issue with it, or, heaven forbid, the humans turn on their own omnic brethren.

This being taken into account, it was remarkable and disturbing that such a disorganized group had managed to be coordinated enough to spread their influence from Dorado and the surrounding area into the rest of Los Angeles and beyond, reaching San Diego and threatening to cross the Mexican border and swallow up Tijuana along with L.A. and San Diego. The work of an outside influence was more than evidently at work here, but just _who_ it could be was a whole new problem. A problem that necessitated infiltration. Jackson had his suspicions, but he hoped to high to high heaven he was wrong.

Jackson ducked from alleyway to alleyway, searching for a building that would serve as a headquarters of sorts. Knowing Los Muertos, the likelihood of there even _being_ a headquarters was slim, but he wasn't about to write off the possibility before he'd even tried looking for one. It was getting more and more difficult to avoid detection. The further he pushed into Dorado, the more concentrated the Muertos activity became, and soon he was seeing their members everywhere. As he ducked into another alleyway, he was forced to backtrack slightly. There were 4 gang members in said alleyway, and he stopped where he was to see if he could glean any information from their conversation.

"...puto, I told you, we can't wait for Juan and José, the new shipment's comin' in right now." One of them said.

"We can't handle that entire thing ourselves, estupido!" Another one said.

"Watch who you callin' estupido, puto, I'll rip off your huevos and shove them down your throat!" The first one growled.

"You two really doin' this now?" A third one said. "We gots shit to do, putos."

"¡Callate, cabrón!" The first one shouted, and all three of them started arguing in rapid Spanish before the fourth one, an omnic, finally spoke up.

"All of you quiet down." He said it calmly enough, but it was enough to shut all of them up. "Let's just get to the warehouse and get to work. We all know what'll happen if we don't pitch in." They all agreed in Spanish and soon they were moving away. Not wasting this opportunity, Jackson started following them, lowering his visor and activating it to keep track of them. As they moved, as did he, ducking between buildings and through alleyways, his visor calculating multiple routes at once to follow them with. He didn't have to follow them very far before they reached a massive warehouse with a single word emblazoned across its main doors.

Hel.

 _Interesting name for a warehouse...especially one that traffics illegal weapons and drugs._ Jackson thought to himself as he stopped moving, taking a moment scan the warehouse with his visor. The place was massive, almost the size of a soccer stadium, and it was filled with Los Muertos members. Jackson knew he'd found the right place, and it was time to see what he could find out about their shipments. Ducking through cover, he began making his way around the warehouse towards the back entrance, planning on sneaking in and seeing what he could find in their storage areas. It was a lengthy trek but soon he was near a back entrance, and he couldn't help but shake his head. They didn't even bother guarding entrances anywhere in the warehouse, and the back was completely void of life. It was almost too easy.

Without wasting another moment, Jackson switched off his visor and, after looking around quickly to make sure he was indeed alone, broke cover and ran straight towards the exit.

And ran headfirst into Jesse McCree.


	6. High Noon In Dorado

**The Dorado Reconnaissance Part 2: High Noon In Dorado**

 _Dorado, Los Angeles, California, U.S.A._

"Agh, son of a bloody cocksucking cuntwad!" Jackson swore as he ran headlong into Jesse McCree, ricocheting off him and spinning to the ground from the impact, dazed and irritated.

"Geez, you kiss your mother with that mouth o' yours?" McCree, like Jackson, had bounced back and spun to the ground from the force of the hit, but was considerably less irritated or vulgar about such.

"Ugh..." Jackson pulled himself to his feet and found himself glaring at McCree as he also got to his feet, garbed in his Blackwatch uniform. "What the fuckin' hell are you doin' here, McCree."

"I could ask you the same thing." McCree returned Jackson's glare, albeit in a far more calm and collected manner. Evidently it was as much a surprise for him to find Jackson there as it was for Jackson to find McCree there.

"I'm working, for your information." Jackson growled, checking around them quickly to make sure there were no members of Los Muertos within earshot.

"Well, ain't that a coincidence. I am too." McCree replied smoothly with a grin.

"Then you're gonna have to explain why." Jackson growled, drawing one of his sidearms threateningly. "Because Blackwatch isn't authorized to operate in the area, so for all intents and purposes, you're here illegally and I have the right to arrest you right here."

"Whoa, whoa now!" The older man's eyes widened as he raised his hands in a defensive gesture. "There ain't no need to jump the gun _that_ quickly..."

"Then explain. Now." Jackson's blue eyes looked right into McCree's, and the older man had to admit that for someone as young as Jackson, he had one hell of a death glare. Heaven help the man foolish enough to piss off Jackson Lawrence!

"Look, whatever you were told, I wasn't aware anybody from Overwatch would be in the area." McCree protested calmly. "Commander Reyes told me Los Muertos were spreadin' stupidly fast and needed someone to either stop it or find out what was causin' it."

"Funny. Strike Commander Morrison sent me in strictly on recon." Jackson growled, though the grip on his sidearm loosened a little. "He also told me that Blackwatch wasn't aware of this situation, or they'd have been looking into it, or so I'd assume. Didn't you blokes get your asses handed to you in your last Sting?"

"Well, yeah. Commander Reyes wasn't gonna let that stop 'em from sendin' someone in." McCree remarked, Jackson holstering his sidearm now and thinking on the situation at hand.

"Whatever the case, we need to remain out of sight." Jackson said, looking around quickly once more to make sure they were alone. "Los Muertos know Overwatch when they see them, if any of their omnics identify us..."

"...it'll be high noon in Dorado." McCree finished.

"...it'll be a bloodbath is what it'll be, McCree." Jackson raised an eyebrow at McCree's statement.

"Where I come from, it's the same thing." He said, slightly grinning despite the morbidity of what he'd just said, and earning him a flat 'are you serious' expression from Jackson.

"Americans." Jackson sighed and rolled his eyes. "Alright, listen. Since you weren't told Blackwatch wasn't authorized to be in the area, I won't do anythin' to hurt your career. Just stay close to me and follow my lead." Jackson lowered his visor once more, getting serious. "Listen to me very carefully, Jesse. This gang controls the entire city of Los Angeles as well as San Diego to the south. They've been spreading like an aggressive virus for the last several months and are threatening to spread into Mexico. We need to find out who's supplying them, and make sure whoever they are isn't someone we have serious enmity with."

"I.e. Talon or worse." McCree stated.

"Precisely. That's why I'm here. I'd rather avoid conflict, but I am authorized to use deadly force. However I can only do so if they attack first, McCree." Jackson glared over his visor. "So try to keep the 'western gunslinger' act in check, will ya?"

"Keep your hat on, I've got ya." McCree grinned, eliciting an eyeroll from Jackson as he slowly opened the back door he'd been aiming for, looking around quickly before slipping in. The warehouse was suffocatingly hot, and upon entering, Jackson realized they were in a storage room, filled from top to bottom with hardshell boxes that Jackson could only assume contained either guns or musical instruments, and since the warehouse was named 'Hel' and run by Los Muertos, that narrowed it down rather succinctly. The boxes were numerous to say the least, and as Jackson and McCree slowly walked through the place, it became clear just what kind of arsenal the gangsters were carrying.

Handguns. Submachine guns. Rifles. Shotguns. Automatic weapons of many varieties. Even heavy machine guns for turrets, only minus the turrets. Miniguns. Grenades. The only things in their arsenal Los Muertos didn't seem to own were missiles and tactical nukes, and thank the lord for that. With the storage area in such condition, it was safe to assume that this was the arsenal they had throughout the base.

"Bloody fuckin' hell..." Jackson swore quietly, looking around the storage room with wide eyes behind his visor. "This is far beyond what I suspected they had...whoever's supplyin' them must be some rich bloke or something..."

"I know..." McCree concurred, "It's like they're preparing for war, or somethin'..." He trailed off as the two men looked at one another.

"This was how they spread so quickly." Jackson spoke the realization out loud for both of them. "They must have been receiving these shipments for months, there's no other way they could have spread so aggressively like they have without interference from the government. They have enough weapons and ammunition to stage a small war and win it. No other gang in the United States is anywhere near this well-equipped. Not even the mafias carry this kind of arsenal."

"So who in the hell would give a gang like this a supply of weapons like this?" McCree inquired as he looked around at everything.

"That's exactly what we're here to find out." Jackson walked over to a solitary case that wasn't on top of anything, crouching down and taking a quick look at the lock on it. "Considering none of these have labels on them, we may have to take one of these back to base for analysis. Otherwise their point of origin will remain elusive."

"Right...I can see why Strike Commander Morrison sent ya." McCree remarked, leaning against a tall stack of gun cases...and not at all realizing that they were unstable. The entire stack of guns toppled over into another stack of guns with a loud crash, causing Jackson to jump in surprise and draw one of his guns as a reflex. The unfortunate luck didn't end there, however, as the first stack falling into another caused the second stack to fall over as well, leading to a chain reaction of falling gun cases that filled the storage area with a loud roaring noise that even a half-deaf man would have heard. Jackson dove for cover, his guns drawn, as the storage area door was kicked open and several dozen members of Los Muertos entered the area, guns drawn and held at the ready as they surveyed the colossal mess that had been caused seemingly by nothing.

Jackson and McCree had both taken cover behind several massive stacks of ammunition cases, and Jackson was giving McCree a searing death glare that made the older man shudder a bit. McCree himself couldn't imagine exactly _why_ he hadn't noticed the instability of the stack, aside from the fact that he hadn't been looking to see if it was stable or not, it wasn't why he was there anyways. And yet because he hadn't been observant enough he'd just gotten both himself and Jackson in a very bad situation. With a wall to their backs and armed gang members at their front, they were trapped with nowhere to go.

"¡¿Qué demonios es esto?!" One of the Muertos members shouted as more and more members of the gang began crowding their way towards the storage area, blocking the light from the warehouse beyond.

"¡Hubo un ruido! ¡Esto es lo que encontramos!" Another one said. A third, who sounded like he was in command, shouted into the storage room.

"If anyone is in here, you fuckers are dead! Pendejos, you have any idea who you messin' with, eh?!" Jackson listened to hims shout and looked over at McCree, who was loading his peacemaker as though preparing for an attack. Jackson knew that if McCree attacked, they'd be pumped with enough lead to pass for a Chinese children's toy, and he had to think quickly to make sure this didn't happen. Unable to discern what their odds were, Jackson peaked around the mountain of wooden crates containing shotgun parts he was hidden behind. There were approximately 50 to 70 members of Los Muertos starting to pour into the storage room, which Jackson now realized was in fact not even a room at all, but an enclosed space surrounded by mountains of wooden crates that had given off the appearance of one. No wonder the gang had been so quick to reach their spot, the noise of McCree's accidental mishap must have echoed through the entire building. Jackson hid once more, thinking hard and beginning to feel he didn't have much of a choice left. Their options were surrender and die, resist then die, fight and die, or...

Jackson could use his "ultimate" and save both their skins.

As it happened, Jackson was feeling that he didn't have much of a choice, and prayed to any gods listening that his instincts and reflexes wouldn't fail him. He quickly signaled to McCree and whispered to him.

"Listen, I have a plan. If everything goes right, we'll both get out of here alive. What I need you to do is do exactly as I tell you, and not stray one hair away from it, we clear?" McCree nodded; at this point, he just wanted to get out of there as well. "Then watch my six, and shoot anyone who sneaks up on me. Don't kill. Wound."

"What are you about to do, exactly?" McCree inquired as the gang began to near their position. Jackson in response lowered his visor and switched on his real-time targeting system, switching it to a setting called _Rip And Tear_.

"I'm about to light this place up to hell." Jackson replied, drawing both his guns and then grinning a bit. _Cue "BFG Division."_

"Wha-?" McCree never even finished the word.

Jackson, not wasting another second, spun out from around the mountain of crates and fired a single shot from his pistol, scoring a hit on the nearest gang member's leg, putting him on the ground. Before he even closed his eyes and yelled in pain, Jackson holstered his pistols and grabbed his dropped weapon, an uzi 9mm, bringing it up and opening fire on the next gang member. Two shots rang out in rapid succession, both of them scoring hits in the shoulder of said gang member, and without even waiting to see him go down, Jackson aimed to his immediate left and fired three more shots, hitting two gang members in their legs. It happened so fast that the other dozens of gang members took several moments to realize what was happening, but it was already too late, and Jackson wasn't stopping.

Not breaking momentum even for a split second, he fired four more shots in rapid succession, kneeling down next to the second gang member he shot and picking up his gun, a SPAS 12 shotgun. The next shot left the uzi empty, and Jackson flung it hard towards his adversaries, knocking one of them out cold. He then brought up the shotgun and fired, hitting two members in the shoulders and then used the momentum of the kickback to bring the shotgun to his opposite side, firing into a gang members shoulder at point blank, and using the kickback of that shot to bring the shotgun back to its original position, firing 4 shells rapidly and downing 5 clustered gang members. Mayhem ensued at the gang realized what was happening. Instantly they scattered, firing haphazardly and panickedly at Jackson and missing each shot. Jackson didn't let up even for a moment, firing the shotgun and putting down several more gang members before running out of ammo, and without eve hesitating, he used the stock of the shotgun as a club and knocked two more gang members cold.

McCree, despite watching Jackson's back, was staring with his jaw dropped and his eyes popping out of his head in amazement and awe. Only his leader Gabriel Reyes moved that quickly, and he was a trained military Black Ops Specialist. Jackson was a relatively new member of Overwatch with only 3 years at the organization under his belt, and yet he was blazing his way through a gang of nearly 70 like it was nothing.

Jackson once more drew his pistols, firing four shots and downing a gang member each before somersaulting across the floor to one of them, holstering his guns and grabbing the member's dropped AK-47, unleashing rapid-fire hell. The gang members were bolting now, unable to face the absolute horror that was lighting them up like matches with their own weapons. Even the omnics were getting out of there, recognizing that this wasn't a random thug, but a trained professional. Jackson emptied the machine gun into the crowd of gang members, ejecting the magazine and tossing it aside as a gang member with a rifle attempted to blindside him. Jackson whirled around and flip-kicked the rifle in the air, firing a single shot into its owner, and then holstered the pistol before catching the rifle perfectly. He whirled around and fired a single shot, putting yet another gang member on the ground with a wounded leg. He then aimed 90 degrees left and shot another in the shoulder, turning back right and landing another shoulder shot as well. He aimed and fired 3 more times, a leg, and shoulder, and a leg. Jackson straightened up, the rifle resting on his shoulder and aiming right behind him, firing a single shot and scoring a hit on a gang member sneaking up on McCree to use as a hostage.

The gang mostly crippled and wounded and the rest fleeing from the one man army that had just decimated them, Jackson raised the rifle, ejected the magazine and then tossed it aside, removing his visor and reading the display on it.

 _Fatalities: 0_ Jackson breathed a sigh of relief. His plan had worked, and now McCree approached him cautiously, an incredulous look on his face.

"What...exactly did you do before Overwatch...?" He asked, Jackson managing a small grin as replied.

"I was a gun shop owner. Now come on, they're sure to be back." Jackson turned and made for the door he and McCree had entered through, exiting into the blistering California summer once more with McCree right behind him.

"So what now, Jackson?" McCree inquired, keeping himself as steady as possible as the adrenaline from the fight before wore off, leaving him surprisingly exhausted despite having only watched the battle go down.

"We should split up and head in different directions." Jackson suggested. "I have an unmarked vessel on the outskirts of the city. I'll get to it and fly east. If anyone follows me I can lose them once I get to France."

"Alright then..." McCree paused as Jackson turned to start moving, and he reached out to clasp Jackson's shoulder.

"What is it?"

"Hey, listen," McCree said, "I wasn't entirely truthful with ya earlier." Jackson turned to face him with a curious expression. "About why I'm here. Truth is..." He looked around as though thinking someone was listening nearby before continuing. "Right now, there's a lot of tension between Reyes and Morrison. There's been tension between them for years now, and it's starting to reach boiling point. Reyes sent me here because Overwatch, frankly, isn't in the best of public esteem and hasn't been for a while."

"I don't..." Jackson looked confused by this, "What? Why isn't Overwatch..."

"Because people nowadays are too used to the peace that's been reigning since the end of the Omnic Crisis 20 years ago." McCree replied. "Some people think we're not needed anymore, and a lot more agree with them. Reyes didn't think Morrison was being very smart by sending you here and sent me after you. To make sure no one knew Overwatch was operating on American soil."

"So, wait, how did Reyes know about this mission if Blackwatch wasn't..."

"Blackwatch was supposed to conduct the mission in the first place. Morrison didn't think it was necessary for a black ops mission and took over the case himself, much to Reyes's annoyance. So he sent me in to make sure it got done." McCree sighed a bit and stepped back. "After saving both our hides back there, you deserve the truth."

"I..." Jackson was stunned by what he'd just learned. The news that Blackwatch and Overwatch were at odds with each other was disturbing and concerning, considering how often the two organizations worked together on missions. If this was true, then what did this mean for Overwatch's future?

"I better get going before them Muertos men come back." McCree tipped his hat to Jackson and moved towards the south, deeper into L.A. as Jackson pondered what he'd learned, moving in the opposite direction of McCree and heading towards his ship outside of L.A. before stopping for a moment. Not about to leave empty handed, Jackson entered the warehouse once again, grabbed the handgun case he'd been examining before everything had gone down, and moved quickly towards his ship.

He needed to move, and fast. Los Muertos would be after him now, and if they were supported by who he thought they were, they'd be close on his tail. He needed to head to an area they wouldn't expect him to go, and he knew France was perfect. It was thousands of miles away, it was densely populated, and plus, he knew someone was there who he could with. Amélie Lacroix was a friend, and a close one at that, she wouldn't refuse to help a friend in need.

His mind made up and ready to go, Jackson moved as quickly as he could to his ship, immediately getting in upon reaching it and firing up the engine.

He had a much longer flight ahead of him than he realized, and it would be longer than he thought before he'd get home safely.


	7. A Friend In Need

**A Friend In Need**

 _Somewhere Over The Atlantic - 13 Hours After The Dorado Shootout_

Jackson sighed as he exhaustively downed a mug of coffee from his airship's supplies, the caffeine rousing him but only slightly. He'd been flying towards Annecy, France for the last thirteen solid hours, and he was starting to grow weary, especially after the shootout in Dorado. He'd been forced to use autopilot multiple times in order to be able to get even minimal rest, and even then, he still hadn't slept. Late nights were a normality for him, but this, this was something else. He'd been sitting in a pilot's chair for hour and hours and hours on end and it was growing monotonous and tedious to say the very least.

In addition, his body was still sore from the Dorado Shootout, his arms were aching from gripping the steering controls in the airship, his legs were sore from running, jumping, climbing, and pressing the airship's gas pedal to keep it aloft and the engine running. Luckily for him he'd thought to bring spare fuel in the event that his airship ran low, and had fully refueled before taking off from Los Angeles. While there was no chance of him running out of fuel before reaching Annecy, he'd already passed his point of safe return (P.S.R.) and would have no choice but to refuel while there, not to mention stay a night or two. Due to the lack of comm activity due to risk of tracing the signal, Amélie had no idea Jackson was on his way there, and his arrival would be a surprise for her. A pleasant one no doubt but a surprise nonetheless.

While most Overwatch members were familiar and friendly with Gérard Lacroix's blindingly beautiful and kind-hearted wife, Jackson, along with Tracer and a select few others, was particularly close to her on a first-name basis. He'd been over to her home in Annecy on several occasions, and, while he hadn't been Gérard's best man, he'd been present at his wedding and had proudly given them his blessing as their mutual friend. In addition, Amélie, out of all the other members of Overwatch aside from her husband seemed to have more fondness for Jackson than anyone else. She loved talking to him, joking with him, laughing with him, and she never once missed an opportunity to cook for him, something she was particularly good at. Jackson felt the same fondness for her, and in many ways, saw her and Gérard as the closest things to siblings he'd ever known.

Even now, sitting at the cockpit of his airship and so tired he was ready to fall asleep and run the risk of crashing the aircraft, Jackson found himself smiling as he thought of Amélie. He wasn't exactly sure why he felt so particularly close to her, but even though he told himself it was sibling-type of relationship, part of him told him it was more than that, and this bothered him a little. He shook himself as these thoughts entered his mind; it wouldn't do to dwell on that now, he had far more important things to focus on at the moment. As though on cue with this train of thought, the ship's navigation system alerted him; he was approaching Annecy, but he would have to land in Geneva, Switzerland.

"Ugh...is there no way to land in Annecy at all...?" He asked the A.I., not willing to make the trip from Geneva after a 13 hour-flight. Before it could even answer he was already giving another order. "Just go to stealth mode and drop me off on the outskirts, alright, I'm not walking from Geneva to Annecy."

"Very well. Autopilot engaged. Inbound to Annecy, France. Estimated Time Of Arrival is 15 minutes."

"Good. After you drop me me off, set it down about 15 miles south of the city. If anyone tries to break in, self destruct." Jackson stood up and began gathering his things, along with the stolen handgun case, for the walk to the Lacroix home, feeling incredibly exhausted after such a long time in the ship.

"Understood. I am however inclined to inquire why I am to self-destruct if anyone breaks in." Jackson sighed.

"Because even though this ship is unmarked, anyone with the capabilities of breaking in will have the capabilities to trace it back to Overwatch. I am currently on the run from a gang who likely want me dead and are undoubtedly backed by someone far worse. Understand now?" Jackson's irritated tone was enough to convey the message even without the long spiel.

"Affirmative. I apologize for irritating you, sir."

"Forget about it. There are more important things to focus on." Jackson sighed in exhaustion as the ship finally began to descend, lowering towards the surface and extending the boarding ramp as it hovered over the ground. Relieved to finally be on solid ground again, Jackson jumped down from the ramp and signaled for the ship to continue on as planned, turning towards Annecy and beginning quite possibly the longest short walk of his life as the ship turned south and flew off.

Annecy was located in the Alps, and as it was farther North than Los Angeles, the weather was considerably cooler, much to Jackson's relief. The air was much fresher as well in comparison to the smog-laden skyline of L.A., and Jackson found himself taking his time with his walk, rather enjoying the fresh, cool air of France and the calm atmosphere of Annecy after the chaos of Dorado. His weariness was eased somewhat by his new surroundings, and he took the opportunity to remove his crimson leather jacket, feeling much fresher without it. Though the city was a tad labyrinthine, this didn't bother him. He knew where to go.

After what felt like forever in his weariness, Jackson finally stood in front of the Lacroix home, sighing in relief as he tiredly knocked on the apartment door. It wasn't very long before a familiar voice was heard behind the door.

"Qu'est-ce?" Jackson smiled as he heard Amélie Lacroix's rich, sultry voice and answered in a attempted joke.

"Jee swees une.." He stumbled over his French and then sighed. He was too tired for this. "Sod it, it's Jackson Lawrence."

"Jackson?!" The apartment door swung open, and Amélie's lovely features lit up as she beheld her close friend. "Oh mon Dieu, it's been too long, mon ami!" She instantly darted forward and wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug that Jackson returned as best he could; his arms felt like they were being weighed down.

"Aye, it has..." He smiled as the hug parted, and Amélie placed a light kiss on each cheek before leading him into the apartment. "I'm sorry to pop in unannounced, it's been a rough couple of days..."

"Oui, you ready to collapse where you stand!" Amélie remarked looking him over before walking him over to the sofa in the living room. "Sit down, rest a bit." Jackson sighed in relief as he sat down, his legs finally giving out as he crouched to sit and resulting in him quite literally plopping down on the sofa.

"Many thanks, Amélie." Jackson groaned a bit as he sat himself up a bit, finally setting down his bag and gun case as Amélie sat next to him, looking him over and taking in his rather filthy and unkempt appearance.

"What happened? You look like you haven't slept for days!" She said, Jackson grinning a bit at the irony.

"I wouldn't say for days, but I _am_ rather sleep deprived, I was flying here for 13 hours." Jackson chuckled tiredly at Amélie's expression. "I came here from Los Angeles, in America."

"What on earth were you doing there?" Amélie inquired.

"I was on a job, actually. I can't give details, but long story short, things went sour and I had to get out of there and lose my tail. I figured this was the best place to go, since no one knows of any connections to Overwatch out here. Gérard's kept his hometown a close kept secret outside of the agency, so there's no need to worry." Jackson smiled reassuringly at Amélie's worried expression. "In any case...I'll need to stay here a for a few days, if it's not too much trouble...?"

"Pas de problème, mon ami!" Amélie hugged him again and smiled warmly. "Make yourself comfortable, I was about to make some crêpes, if you're hungry?" Jackson didn't even need to answer, as at the mention of crêpes his stomach let out a resounding growl, eliciting a giggle from the Frenchwoman. "Très bien alors!"

"Heh..." Jackson smiled a bit and sat up a little straighter, stretching his arms and welcoming the opportunity to rest properly. His body was still sore and exhausted, but now with endorphins pumping through his system, he found himself feeling quite at ease. Amélie busied herself in the kitchen preparing their meal, working with graceful ease as only she could. Jackson never tired of watching her work, as her work as a ballerina had given her a very smooth sense of speed, working quickly and yet never jerking around or twitching. She was steady and disciplined, and never once slowed down or showed signs of exertion.

Jackson shook himself a little as he realized that he'd been sitting and staring at Amélie make crêpes for nearly 15 minutes. He was very tired indeed if his mind was so hazy that his eyes were focusing in on her in such a fashion. Not that anyone would blame him, as Amélie Lacroix was, as had been stated and observed many a time, staggeringly attractive, but there was a little bit more to it for Jackson Lawrence. He'd always found Amélie attractive, without question, but he felt a little more than that, and it was a feeling he couldn't identify to save his life. Or rather, he knew exactly what it was but refused to acknowledge it, and as a result often found himself at odds with himself. He and Amélie were close friends. And nothing more than that. So he kept telling himself, repeatedly.

But he knew what he really felt.

"Ah, parfait!" Amélie smiled as she finished the preparations and brought the crêpes into the room on a good sized platter, startling Jackson out of his train of thought. He smiled as she set the platter on the coffee table in front of the sofa, pushing himself into a proper seated position and grabbing a fork to eat. For the time being he put all other thoughts aside and just focused on eating, thoroughly enjoying every solitary bite of every flat pastry he put in his mouth to consume. After going nearly two days without food, suddenly having it was the most refreshing thing he could imagine and he was savoring it as best he could. As it was, he ended up finishing long before Amélie, though he still remembered to leave just a bit on the plate out of courtesy. *****

"Well, someone was seriously hungry!" Amélie giggled a bit and smiled at him. "Glad I made enough for you!"

"More than enough, Amélie." Jackson replied with a smile, setting his fork and knife down. "You just made my day, lass."

"I'm glad I could." Amélie smiled and moved to collect all the dishes for washing.

"No, no, I'll take care of it, it's okay!" Jackson made to stand up, but was pushed back down to the sofa.

"I won't hear of it, mon ami, you clearly haven't slept for two days, you're not going to do _anything_ that requires exertion while you're here!" Amélie gathered the dishes and took them to the kitchen to wash them off, and Jackson chuckled as he laid back on the couch.

"Very well, then, _mademoiselle_ , I won't lift a finger." He rolled his eyes as he threw the French word in to tease her; his pronunciation of French words always got under her skin because of his thick Scottish accent, and now as ever she was getting a little agitated.

"Parle anglais, your French is terrible!" She shot back at him. Jackson rolled his eyes and then _really_ stumped her.

"Boireannach, bidh mi a 'bruidhinn an cànan sam bith mi a' faicinn freagarrach! ****** " He declared, and Amélie's response was a confused look.

"What...the hell...was that?!" Amélie burst into hysterical laughter as Jackson smirked.

"Scottish Gaelic, Mlle Lacroix. I'm a Scot, I'll speak the language of my homeland!" Jackson grinned.

"Oh, tais-toi!" Amélie wiped a tear of laughter aside and sat back down next to him on the couch. "Ah, I have not laughed like this for a long time!"

"How long's Gérard been away?" Jackson asked. Amélie's expression fell slightly as she answered.

"Two months...it's so frustrating, him being away for such long periods." She replied, looking down slightly and brushing her long, flowing black hair out of her face. "I miss him so...especially late at ni-" She cut herself off before finishing that sentence and turned a bit red. Jackson turned rather red as well as he remembered Ana's words from a few days previously. _"Leave a woman waiting that long, and of course she'll pin you down."_

"I'm...sorry to hear." Jackson looked away a little, blushing still as his heart began to pound out of his chest.

"I don't mean to make you uncomfortable, Jackson." Amélie placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, causing his heart to leap in response.

"N-no, it's nothin', I get it..." He replied a bit quickly, still not looking directly at Amélie. _What is wrong with me?_

"Are you sure?" Amélie didn't seem convinced and sounded more concerned than ever. "You seem very uncomfortable right now...I can see it in your face. You're red as a cherry."

"I'll be fine...I..." Jackson inhaled and steadied himself for a beat as his fatigue began to hit him full force. "I've had a rough couple of days. I'd like to wash up, if it's alright...?"

"O-okay...the washroom is where it always is." Amélie seemed more concerned than ever as Jackson pulled himself to his feet, groaning in pain as his body ached all over, a few joints popping from the exertion.

"I thank you...I'll be fine sleeping on the sofa too, if that's alright." Jackson called back as he made his way down the hall to the restroom.

"Of course!" Amélie called after him, still feeling concerned and even a little confused. _What's wrong...?_

Jackson entered the washroom and leaned against the wall, holding his head in his hands. What was wrong with him? Why was he feeling this way now, of all times? He'd dealt with this before but not when Amélie was present. He shook himself and proceeded to strip down, turning on the shower and allowing it to heat up before entering it. The water poured over his hot, sore body as he washed himself off, his eyes aimed squarely at the floor as he continued to wash himself off.

He knew he'd have to say something eventually, but like with Angela, he was putting it off. At least with Angela it was easy to go and see her at any point during the day, and it was easy for him to talk to her, but with Amélie? He couldn't speak as openly, and for a simple reason, at least in his mind. It wasn't meant to be, plain and simple. She was married, and happily so, and to act on what he felt in this regard would destroy it, along with his friendships with either of them. He couldn't in good conscience do that to them. No one's happiness was worth destroying someone else's, least of all his own.

 _It's not going to happen, Jackson._ He thought to himself, pressing his forehead to the shower wall. _You had your chance, and you blew it. There's nothing you can do now, and nothing you should do. She's happy, and that's all that should matter._ Even as he thought this his fists clenched and his eyes closed tightly, his teeth set. _But if that's the case...then why do I feel like part of me is missing without her to fill the void? What am I even thinking here, she's your friend, you fuckwit!_

For nearly 20 minutes he mentally argued with himself, unable to settle the torrent of emotion surging through him as the mental conflict raged on. His heart was aching. He knew why it was, too, and while he could agree to it silently, he could never acknowledge it aloud.

He could never admit, to himself or anyone else, that he loved Amélie Lacroix.

 **X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X**

 _Later That Night_

 _He feels nothing. The world is black and void. He feels suspended in space, nothing under or above him, the only sound to be heard is his own breathing. For intents and purposes, he is dead, and yet...he can hear his heartbeat. He's still breathing, and he's still able to think, and yet he can't move. He can't speak. He can't see, or hear, or smell, or feel anything aside from his own breaths and his own heartbeat. He's trapped._

 _He's trapped inside his own mind, with no way out._

Jackson sat up on the sofa breathing heavily as he gripped the side of the couch hard to steady himself. Another nightmare. And this one, while not as horrifying as the last one he'd had, had been far worse. To be trapped in his own mind with no way out, nothing to see, feel, hear, or smell...such a thing could drive someone insane. Sweat was once more pouring from his body as he stood up, walking out onto the balcony of the Lacroix apartment, looking out over Annecy and taking in a deep breath. The fresh air was soothing, and bit by bit he slowly but surely calmed down. The cool night air felt nice against his bare torso, and he savored the feeling for as long as he could. It wasn't likely that he'd get to enjoy such sensations very much after returning to Overwatch. It couldn't hurt to enjoy the little things like this.

"Jackson...?" He turned to see Amélie, now garbed in a light purple nightgown, standing in the doorway behind him. "I heard you in the living room...are you alright?"

"I'm fine, I just..." Jackson took a deep breath and steadied himself. "I had a nightmare, is all. I thought some fresh air would do me some good." Amélie walked out to the balcony and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"You work too hard for your own good." Amélie remarked with a soft smile. "You and Gérard both. The only difference is that Gérard takes time off every once and a while."

"Not sure what I'd do if I was off for any more than a few days." Jackson replied. Amélie chuckled a bit and hugged Jackson lightly.

"Stop making excuses and just take time to rest already." She smiled at him widely. "You of all people deserve it."

"Well, it'll have to wait a while...i'm only here for a couple days, and I still have a job to do."

"I know..." Amélie sighed and gently parted the hug, walking back into the apartment. "Just remember you're always welcome here whenever you wish to come by."

"Thanks, Amélie." He smiled as she walked walked back to her bedroom, looking back over the city with a small sigh.

He was a lucky man to have friends like her. One never knew just when their friends would be needed, and Jackson was nothing without his. But even as he thought this, something Strike Commander Morrison told him came to mind.

 _"Today's friends could be tomorrow's enemies."_

* * *

 ** _*- In some European countries, eating all the food on the plate gives the impression that they didn't serve you enough, and this can be rude and make you come off as gluttonous. It's courteous to leave at least one bite of food on the plate, as this shows that they made you enough and it was worth their effort and time._**

 ** _** - Scottish gaelic for "Woman, I will speak any language I see fit!"_**


	8. Yesterday's Ally, Today's Adversary

**Yesterday's Ally, Today's Adversary**

 _Castillo, Central Mexico - 1 Week After Mondatta's Assassination_

Jack Crimson stepped off a Talon airship, the scorching Mexico heat hitting him like a tidal wave as he surveyed the city of Castillo before him. In the year since the Dorado Shootout, Los Muertos' spread had continued unabated, and now their presence was felt even deep in the heart of Mexico. Their symbol was emblazoned and graffitied all over the place, on walls, on abandoned cars. They were the kings here, and as Reaper had told him, whoever this hacker he was after was, they'd managed to topple the local government, resulting in Los Muertos practically running the city now, along with nearby surrounding cities.

None of this bothered him in the slightest as he ventured into the city at a steady pace, his cybernetic eyes surveying everything in front of him as they glanced back and forth. He stuck out like a sore thumb, with his pale complexion, dark clothing, and red hair, his cybernetic nature betrayed by his white and red eyes, the symbol on his forehead popping out from his features. He didn't care. His guns were loaded, his destination set, and his objective made clear.

Find the hacker. Recruit them if they're willing. If they refuse, kill them. Nothing more needed.

Members of Los Muertos were starting to notice him, whispering to one another in Spanish and pointing in his direction, their luminescent tattoos visible whenever they ducked into shadow. It was clear that they hadn't heard about Mondatta's assassination yet, for he could clearly see their omnic members among them, all of them bearing similar markings to their human cohorts, and none of them acting hostile towards them. It was almost amusing. Omnics were in a state of uprising in Europe, in fact, Russia had already started responding, marshalling their military and building battle mech suits to combat the omnics that were violently retaliating in response to the assassination of one of their most peaceful voices. Yet on the other side of the world in Central Mexico, the omnic population knew next to nothing, and still saw humans as brethren. It was laughable, really. And if his quarry was as skilled as he believed them to be, the city was only barely being held together by nothing more than mere ignorance.

As Crimson continued walking through the streets of Castillo, a group of Muertos members suddenly walked out of an alleyway, some 15 of them in total, and all stood in front of him, blocking his path and bringing him to a stop.

"Going somewhere, gringo?" One of them said with a smirk, the others laughing as Crimson's eyes looked at each of them.

"Move, or be moved." Crimson said flatly, the thugs laughing at this as their apparent leader walked forward and poked Crimson in the chest with a butterfly knife.

"Got some nerve coming into _our_ town, puto, bossing us around like a bunch of pendejos." The others agreed, and Crimson's eyes locked with those of the man in front of him, his cybernetic orbs popping out of his features like red-hot coals.

"You _are_ a bunch of pendejos, however widespread you may be." Crimson looked at each and every one of the 15 gang members surrounding him. "I won't ask again. Move. Or you will be moved." The thugs blocking his path uttered exclamations of incredulity at Crimson's words.

"You hear this puto?"

"Thinks he's such a mal hombre, coming in here and bossing us around!"

"Está muerto."

"You're gonna die, cabron."

The apparent leader flipped out his blade and the other thugs all brandished melee weapons of their own. "Must have a deathwish, puto, cos you're 'bout to-" _Bang!_ "AGH!" The leader fell to the ground clutching his left leg, his femur shattered from the bullet Crimson had just put in it.

"I warned you." Crimson raised the still-smoking gun along with his other sidearm and aimed at the other gang members present. "Final warning. Anyone else want to try me?" Without any hesitation, the remaining thugs grabbed their fallen and bolted, Crimson smirking as they disappeared. He knew it wasn't the last he'd see of them, but he didn't care. For the moment, he had a job to do, and he'd deal with them later.

As he continued walking, he found himself hesitating, or rather moving slower than before. His instincts were going crazy, and as he lowered his visor and activated it, it became clear through its readings someone was close. Very close. Their heat signature was yards from him. Whoever it was, they were using some kind of cloaking mechanism to mask their visible presence in the light spectrum. Crimson stopped walking and stood stock still, his cybernetic eyes narrowing as he waited for whoever it was to get closer. They were mere feet from him now. As he prepared to preempt them, his visor detected a teleportation device nearby, matching its signature to the person sneaking up on him. Whoever it was, they were crafty. But not crafty enough.

Crimson shifted his stance slightly and whipped out one of his sidearms. The person behind him reacted quickly, activating their device and teleporting a yard or so behind him, in an alleyway. Crimson, purposefully having made a feint attack, then whirled around with his left elbow, catching whoever it was right in the face and knocking them flat on their back. He then planted his left foot in the middle of their stomach and aimed his sidearm at their head, before getting his first look at who it was.

Underneath him was Mexican woman around the age of 30, albeit looking no older than their early 20s, slender and of medium stature. Her head was almost completely shaved save for one thick lock of black hair draped over the right side, highlighted in neon purple. The left side of her head sported two glowing beams that appeared to be wiring covers, and as Crimson got a better look at her, he saw that her arms were garbed in gloves that extended past her elbows, digital and cybernetic wiring running through them, with nail-like extensions on the fingertips. Her outfit was various shades of electron blue, neon purple, and highlighted in pink with some areas in black. She was garbed in a short-sleeved overcoat with a high collar, and her outfit underneath was molded to the shape of her body.

"Huh, feint attack. Impresionante." She said with coy grin, only to wince as Crimson dug his foot into into her chest hard.

"Two seconds. Tell me why I shouldn't kill you." Crimson growled, his sidearm aimed squarely between her eyes. The woman laughed at this.

"Hombre, if you know what's good for the world, you oughta kill me right here." She looked right at where his eyes would be as she said this, and this told Crimson exactly who it was. After a moment of contemplating, he holstered his sidearm and removed his foot from her chest, allowing her to pick herself up and brush off. "Maldición, and I just washed this too..."

"You're the hacker who toppled the local government, aren't you." It wasn't a question. Crimson knew exactly who it was but wanted to see if she'd confirm it herself.

"If you feel comfortable _calling_ it government." The women smirked as she stretched a little to loosen up a bit. "Really, it wasn't hard. Pull a few strings, release some dirty secrets, and you'd have a revolution on your-"

"You talk too much." Crimson said flatly, removing his visor so the woman could see his eyes, which were narrowed rather menacingly, and the woman seemed slightly thrown off by the presence of cybernetic eyes on an organic face, and yet a bit fascinated at the same time. "Yes or no, are you the hacker."

"Yeesh, ¡relájese hombre!" She seemed annoyed that he cut her off but seemed to shrug it off. "Sí, I'm the hacker, geez..."

"Do you have a name?" Crimson was clearly not someone to mince words as the woman was finding out, and she sighed slightly. This man was no fun at all.

"It's Sombra, cabron, what's it to you?" She was no longer grinning and was now looking quite irritated. She was so used to being the coy and playful one, and this man, clearly, was in no mood whatsoever for any of her antics.

"My name is Crimson. I'm here on behalf of Talon." He looked her right in the eyes, his flat expression never changing or even flinching to the point that it was unnerving. The mention of the world's most notorious terrorist caught Sombra off guard and her eyes went wide.

"¡Espere! Why would Talon want anyth-" Crimson once more cut her off.

"We're aware of what you're capable of. We have an interest in your abilities as a hacker and IT expert. Your work in toppling the local government turned more than a few heads, and not all of them friendly." His eyes were narrowed in a glare that would have given the average man the impression that he was x-raying them. "And I happen to know that the power source of all that cybernetic enhancement is located in a body cavity between your fifth and sixth ribs. Shot there wouldn't kill you, but you wouldn't be hacking anything any time soon."

"Okay, now you're just being creepy, and hombre, it's not working with me." Sombra said rather flatly. "I know enough about Talon and its peeps to know you're not such a big bad man as you act, Mr. I-Fuck-the-Black-widow-nightly. And what's with that anyways, you and Araña, you so desperate to get some that you'll just take a knife in the gut just to-"

"Utter one more word, spic, and my bullet will bypass your ribs and end up in your skull." This interruption was uncharacteristically hostile, and even angry, even for Crimson as he drew his sidearm and pressed it to her forehead threateningly, backing Sombra against a wall.

"Relajate, amigo, do you not no a joke when you-"

"Save it." Crimson growled as he glared right into Sombra's eyes. "I'm going to make this as simple as possible. I'm here to recruit you for Talon because you're good at what you do, and my instructions are that if you refuse, I'm to put a bullet right where my gun is aimed." He growled menacingly as his demonic-looking cybernetic eyes actually glowed threateningly. "Talon can't have a woman like you running loose with the potential to know every secret they have. So, do you _really_ want to test me right now?" Sombra looked from Crimson's eyes to the gun aimed at her forehead and back to his eyes as she seemed to be weighing her options. Crimson's visor silently alerted him, and he lowered it seemingly to hide whatever he was thinking, but in reality to check what it was telling him. Someone identified as a hostile was nearby and closing in. It wouldn't do to delay.

"Clock's tickin', amiga." Crimson stated. "Because if you don't join and I don't kill you, someone else will." The hostile was closer, and his eyes narrowed as his visor identified who it was. This was about to get interesting. "You have 5 seconds before said someone else turns the corner behind me, and after that, you're on your own." Sombra's expression became confused, and then comprehending as she finally made up her mind.

"Okay, fine!" Was all she managed out before Jesse McCree rounded the corner behind Crimson, now garbed like a futuristic Clint Eastwood replete with a cigar in his mouth. Before Sombra could say more, Crimson shoved her aside and whirled around, firing four rounds in McCree's direction, causing him to take cover.

"What in the..." McCree immediately drew his six shooter as he took cover behind an abandoned car, Crimson drawing his second sidearm and firing in his direction. Each round passed right through the abadnoned vehicle, missing McCree by centimeters. _He's good, whoever he is..._

Crimson holstered both his guns and walked forward, grabbing the car McCree was using for cover and tossing it aside as though it weighed little more than a dinner table, thanks to his arms being cybernetic. McCree instantly got to his feet firing three rapid rounds at Crimson, two of them glancing off his cybernetic left arm shielding his heart, and the third scoring a hit on his left shoulder. The hit didn't even phase Crimson as he charged McCree head-on, executing a forward flip kick that knocked his peacemaker from his hand. McCree instantly reacted, catching Crimson's punch with his right hand and stopping it dead on.

"Jesse McCree." Crimson stated as his eyes narrowed behind his visor.

"And you are?" McCree glared at the cyborg whose punch he was blocking, despite the amount of force behind it.

"Jack Crimson. I'm sure you've heard of me by now." Crimson almost laughed at McCree's incredulous glare.

"The contract killer from Scotland, eh?" His glare was one of intense anger, even hatred. "Cappin' off omnics in the UK get too borin' for you?"

"Let's just say I found a higher calling." With that, Crimson relieved the pressure from his punch, causing McCree to stumble forward past him. Crimson then spun in a 360, landing a kick with his left leg in McCree's back and sending him onto the street, a few feet from his peacemaker. "You ex-Overwatch blokes are gettin' sloppy."

"So you met more of us." McCree somersaulted to his peacemaker and recovered it, whirling around and aiming it at Crimson, only to find Crimson's sidearm aimed directly between his eyes. The two men stood there in this manner, Crimson's sidearm aimed at McCree's forehead, McCree's peacemaker aimed at Crimson's gut. Neither of them moved, neither of them even dared to breathe, as they stood there, each man in a position to end the life of the other, or so it would seem. For a long moment they just looked one another in the eye, McCree's dark eyes meeting Crimson's black visor, staring one another down as though each man was daring the other to pull the trigger.

McCree suddenly stiffened as he felt something hard and metallic press to the back of his head, and a metallic whirring was heard as Sombra suddenly appeared behind him, having snuck up behind him via cloaking device, and unlike her attempt to surprise Crimson, this time it'd worked. Her right hand was toting a fully automatic submachine gun similar to a MAC10, the barrel pressed to the back of McCree's head as she smirked widely.

"Drop it, puto. Ahora mismo." McCree, realizing he no choice, raised his hands in a surrendering gesture, tossing his peacemaker aside. Even as Sombra smirked in victory, Crimson aimed his sidearm downward and fired 5 rounds into McCree's left arm, shattering the humerus right below the elbow and rendering it useless. McCree yelled in pain as he fell to his knee, clutching his crippled arm in agony as Crimson holstered his sidearm.

"Luckily for you, I'm not in a killing mood today, McCree." Crimson smirked as McCree glared up at the cybernetic killer standing over him. "But you certainly won't be taking jobs for a while. That humerus is useless. Might as well cut your arm off."

"You...red bastard...!" McCree snarled past the the past in his arm, Crimson just shaking his head at the insult.

"I may be a bastard, McCree, but you? You're a stray without a collar." Crimson then backhanded McCree on the side of his head, knocking him cold as Sombra regarded him with incredulity.

"Why not just kill him, hombre rojo? He's nobody, no one's gonna come back for him." Sombra stood next to Crimson now as he regarded the unconscious McCree.

"Exactly." Crimson smirked and inserted his ear comm in his right ear, pressing it to open the channel to his airship standing by. "Sombra's in. Ready for extraction."

"Affirmative." As Crimson severed the connection, Sombra raised an eyebrow.

"You know, I've done some things that could be considered sadistic, but you?" She couldn't resist her smirk as she shook her head. "You really are a bastard."

"If I were a sadist, I'd have shot off his leg." Crimson replied flatly. "I meant to disarm, not cripple."

"Quite literally, it would seem." Sombra chuckled at her own joke, but stopped when Crimson didn't. "Ay, no tiene sentido del humor..."

"Save it." Crimson looked up as a black Talon airship descended towards Castillo, turning as it extended its boarding ramp. Crimson boarded the airship with Sombra close behind, the aircraft taking off and accelerating as the ramp closed behind them.

"You know, you should probably try relaxing once in awhile, you look like you never sleep."

"I don't." He said nothing more than this, sitting down on a bench and proceeding the reload his guns, not even looking at Sombra as she sat next to him in a slightly suggestive pose, a wide smirk gracing her features.

"Heh, well, I tend not to myself, considering the amount of information I collect on a regular basis..." Sombra casually examined the finger extensions on her gloves as, eyeing Crimson from the side and grinning knowingly at him.

"If you're trying to flirt, you can save your energy and your breath." Crimson removed his visor and glared at Sombra irritatedly. She wasn't even phased as she examined his eyes and his arms closely.

"Just how much of you is cybernetic anyway?" She inquired, genuinely curious as she pulled up a scanning field, her eyes widening as it detected Crimson's enhancements. "¡Dios mío! More than 50% of your body is artificial?! Heh, no wonder taking a knife in the gut doesn't kill you, your enhancements accelerate your healing. Not even a shot in the heart would kill you..." Sombra then smirked as she identified the real source of his power. "It'd take a headshot to really put you do-AGH!" Her speech was cut off as Crimson's left hand gripped her wrist in a vice-like grip, causing her to wince in pain.

"Watch yourself, niña." Crimson growled. "Talon wouldn't take it very likely if you decided to kill their top marksman."

"¡Relajate!" Sombra yanked her hand out of Crimson's grip. "Seriously, you treat everything I do like a threat!"

"You're a hacker." Crimson stated flatly. "Hackers lie. It's their nature. Now I suggest you shut up for the remainder of this flight, or you'll find yourself falling to your death."

"Ugh, fine..." Sombra got up and walked to the opposite side of the ship, sitting down by herself. It was going to be a long, long flight.

 _I don't know what they're planning, but whatever it is, I could use it to my advantage._ She thought to herself. _Talon are the most widespread terrorist organization on the planet, and if they're looking for a hacker, they must be planning something big...and I'm sure I have an idea of what._ Sombra smirked to herself. This was going to be interesting.

 _And this man...heh, well. I'd better keep a close eye on him for now. He may have a glaring weakness in his head, but that won't stop him._

Crimson meanwhile holstered both his guns as he eyes Sombra across the ship. _This woman had better be worth the trouble, Reaper._ As if in response to this train of thought, his ear comm buzzed, and Crimson stood, walking towards the cockpit as he answered.

"Crimson here."

"Mission to extract DoomFist's gauntlet failed." Widowmaker was on the other end, and indeed she sounded somewhat miffed. "It seems Overwatch's former agents aren't as dormant as we thought they'd be."

"Hmmm...tell Reaper that I successfully recruited the hacker in Mexico." He looked back at Sombra, who waved at him with a playful smirk. "I have an idea that may allow him to locate all their former members with ease."

"Compris." She replied as she severed the connection. Crimson thought long and hard on the situation as he walked back to the ship's hold. _Only Winston would have possession on Overwatch's agent database...if McCree's appearance and their interference in the gauntlet's recovery is any indication, they're going to be a problem. Talon will need to take preemptive action. Sombra could make a device to hack the database in minutes, and once Winston's located, the others will be too._

Crimson sat down once more, a plan forming in his mind. _Overwatch aren't as dead as Talon thought. I wonder..._ Crimson grinned and then looked over at Sombra.

"Tell me, Sombra. Ever been out as far as Russia?"


	9. More Than Anticipated

**More Than Anticipated**

 _Annecy, France - 60 Hours After The Dorado Shootout_

Jackson sat on the couch in Amélie's living room, the handgun case from Dorado open on the coffee table with the firearm encased with it dismantled and laid out piece by piece as he examined each one as closely as possible. After an initial inspection of the handgun, Jackson's experience as a gunmaker had sparked suspicion in him, and so now he was examining every piece of the weapon with a critical eye born from handling firearms from the age of 11. The longer he examined the weapon, the more pronounced his frown became, and the more suspicious he found it. Amélie sat nearby watching him curiously, fascinated by how much he seemed to understand about the weapon in his hands. He'd been focused entirely on the gun for nearly 3 hours now, stopping only to use the restroom or drink some water. It seemed as though the focus on the handgun had cost him his appetite, for he hadn't eaten anything since extracting the gun from its case.

"There's no question whatsoever." Jackson said this so suddenly that Amélie jumped noticeably, nearly dropping the cup of coffee she was drinking.

"No question of what...?" Amélie inquired as her nerves settled somewhat, and Jackson sat back on the couch, thinking hard.

"The gun is Russian. Every piece of it, down to the rivets and divots. Manufactured in Russia by a private company, judging by the lack of labeling." He sat in deep thought for several minutes, silently processing the implications of this knowledge. _Russia's very notorious for priding themselves on their weapons and armed forces, there's no question, but this...supplying a no-name gang in the U.S.A.? I don't buy it. Something's off here. Someone in Mexico, maybe, someone from South America or even areas of West Europe and the Far East, I'd be more willing to believe would sell weapons like this to Los Muertos, but Russia? Either there's someone in Russia with a taste for scumbags, or someone's trying to implicate Russia to draw people off their scent._ Jackson sighed aloud and looked over at Amélie, who was still watching him with some concern.

"So...what does this mean, exactly...?" The Frenchwoman seemed confused.

"I can't give away too much detail, but let's just say that this gun being Russian is...unexpected, considering where I got it from. And I'll need to discuss it with my superiors." Jackson reassembled the gun with expert ease and placed it back in the case it'd been in. "They'll want to know where I am, for starters. They've not received word of my location since my departure."

"How will you contact them, then?"

"I'll need to get back to my ship, it's about 15 miles out." Jackson sat back after closing the case and sighed a little. It seemed that this mission was far from over, even after everything he'd already been through, and he wasn't too happy about it either. "Bloody hell, this'll be a long job." Amelié felt a pang of sympathy for the Scot, and looked down at her coffee for a moment, reminded momentarily of her husband Gerard, coming home exhausted from long jobs, only to find out there was still more to be done. It bothered Amelié to see Jackson, a younger and less experienced Agent than her husband, suffering from the same plight, and indeed, the more she thought on it, the more she felt obliged to help him in some way...but how? She was only a ballerina, and had little to no experience whatsoever handling weapons of any kind.

"Is...there something I can do?" Amelié sat straighter in her seat, her expression of concern not changing, and Jackson looked her in the eyes with a sense of longing, honestly wishing there was something Amelié _could_ do to help.

"I wish there was, Amelié, but given the circumstances and the nature of this job, I don't think there is..." Jackson sighed once more and then straightened up where he was sitting. "I'd say your hospitality and kindness alone have been more than enough help." He managed a small smile, and as Amelié returned his gaze, his heart rate escalated slightly.

 _Damn it, Jackson, calm down...now's not the time._ He furiously thought to himself, trying to steady his own heartbeat as the beautiful Frenchwoman in front of him seemed to move in slow motion, and he forced himself back to reality as Amelié sighed a little.

"It's the least I could do." She said with a small smile, and Jackson returned it with one of his own, nodding a little before pulling himself to his feet with a grunt.

"I shouldn't waste time. The sooner I contact HQ, the sooner I can get to the bottom of all this." He stated, grabbing the gun case and popping his neck a little as Amelié stood up as well.

"Right." She nodded and followed Jackson as he walked towards the apartment door, and he took a moment to look back at her as he opened the door. Amelié's heart skipped a beat as she saw the look in his eyes...she'd seen that look before. It was longing, desire, and the urge to say something that he so desperately wanted to say to her, and yet...he couldn't. Amelié felt her heart rate escalate slightly, and she almost missed it when Jackson spoke.

"Thank you, again, for your hospitality." Jackson managed a smile. "I hope to see you again soon." Amelié managed to shake off her momentary distraction and smiled, leaning forward and giving Jackson a small kiss on his cheek.

"Adieu, mon ami." Amelié said softly, and Jackson smiled, turning and leaving the apartment. Amelié stood there for a long moment, alone in the apartment once more. _What was that...?_ She'd felt the escalation in her heart rate, and as she thought of Jackson now, her heart rate was escalating once more. What _was_ that? Why was her heart beating so furiously now at the thought of Jackson Lawrence? What reason could she possibly have for such a reaction, however involuntary, to the gaze of someone who for all intents and purposes was more of a brother than anything else?

 _Am I...falling for him...?_

 **X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X**

Jackson sighed to himself as he made his way through the streets of Annecy, following his ship's homing beacon and trying very hard to put aside his thoughts from earlier. He had far more important things to worry about now. It wouldn't do to be distracted by his personal feelings, not with what appeared to be a much larger conspiracy than he'd initially thought in the works. He needed to alert Overwatch immediately on this matter, it wouldn't do to lose focus now.

It took him a couple of hours, but Jackson managed to make it to his ship without too much trouble, finding it nestled in the forestry surrounding the City, far enough from it to be hidden, and the mountains around said city assisted in hiding it as well, casting massive shadows over the area where the ship was hidden and allowing Jackson to reach it undetected.

He was certain that he was being watched. If his theory on a much larger conspiracy was correct, then he couldn't afford to take the chance that he was being observed from afar, some unseen eyes taking note of his every move. Looking around for a moment, Jackson entered the entrance code for his ship, entering it and sitting in the pilot's seat as the door closed behind him.

"Computer, does the ship have enough fuel for the flight back to HQ?" He inquired as the ship powered up.

"Affirmative. Overwatch Headquarters are not far from this location. Shall I plot a course?" The ship's A.I. inquired as Jackson sighed somewhat in relief.

"Do so. It's imperative that I return there immediately." Jackson quickly entered in a transmission code, unable to wait long enough for the trip to be made as the ship began to slowly levitate off the ground. The transmission beacon beeped for a few moments, and then a holographic image of the Overwatch insignia appeared on the windshield.

"Jackson, is that you?" It was Morrison speaking.

"Aye, it's me, Strike Commander." Jackson confirmed and Morrison immediately cut to the point.

"What's the mission status, agent?" Morrison sounded irritated, and Jackson inhaled for a moment before replying.

"We may have a much larger conspiracy at work than we first thought, Strike Commander." Jackson stated. "For the sake of being cautious, I'll give my full report when I arrive, I'm heading your way now. Crimson out." Jackson severed the connection, buckling himself in as the ship accelerated, heading for Switzerland.

The flight wasn't a long one. In less than an hour, Overwatch HQ came into view, and the ship touched down on the landing pad as Morrison, Reinhardt, and Ana all came out to meet it.

"Jackson!" Morrison growled as the Scot descended the ramp from his ship. "You wanna tell me what this is all about?"

"We should be somewhere more private, Strike Commander." Jackson said flatly, the gun case clenched in his right hand as he met the soldier's steely gaze without even flinching. For a moment the two men stared one another down, and Morrison sighed after a moment, gesturing for Jackson and the others to follow. The four of them exited the landing area and made their way to the conference room where Jackson had first received his debrief.

"Mind filling us in, Jackson?" Ana inquired as the door shut. Jackson nodded to the Egyptian Captain and placed the case on the conference table.

"Here's the deal." Jackson began, taking a moment to circle the table as he gathered his thoughts. "My infiltration was successful. And I found out where Los Muertos were keeping their arsenal. Hel Warehouse in Dorado." He pressed a few buttons on the table console, and a holographic image of said warehouse appeared over it. "Inside, I found enough military grade weaponry to stage a small war and win it. Whoever's been supplying them has been doing so for a long time. But then there's this." Jackson pointed at the case on the table. "I was able to grab this before I was discovered and forced to retreat. I took shelter in Annecy, and discovered something bothersome." He then walked forward and opened the case, revealing the hand gun. "I disassembled and examined every wee piece of this sidearm. I've been handling guns since I was a wee lad, and I can tell you honestly. This gun, from the casing to the divots and rivets, is Russian-made." The three senior members of Overwatch stepped back in surprise.

"Are you absolutely certain on this?!" Reinhardt demanded, his glare looking all the more fierce thanks to his battle scars and eye-patch.

"I swear me life on it." Jackson stated.

"Why would anyone in Russia supply a group like Los Muertos?" Ana inquired aloud as Jackson regarded her for a moment.

"My guess is that they didn't, but someone wants us to think they did." Jackson replied. "Someone who seriously doesn't want us to figure out their role in all this, and I personally can only think of one person, or rather, one group of persons who'd want us off their tail."

"Talon." Morrison growled and glared at the Russian sidearm.

"Exactly. But we can't be too careful, Strike Commander." Jackson stated. "We need to confirm this wasn't supplied by whoever manufactured it."

"The only company that makes sidearms of _that_ kind of craftsmanship is Volskaya Industries." Ana stated, looking deep in thought. "But I highly doubt Katya Volskaya would ever even consider Los Muertos anyone worth supplying."

"As Jackson said, we can't be too careful." Morrison stated, straightening up for a moment and thinking on the matter for a moment before regarding Jackson seriously. "We'll need you to talk to her in person. We have a contact in Russia, Aleksandra Zaryanova, a.k.a. Zarya. She fought during the Omnic Crisis, and is considered one of Russia's top soldiers." An image of Zarya appeared on over the table as Morrison spoke. "I'll contact her personally. In the meantime, Lawrence, I suggest you use the time available to you to recuperate. Resupply, refuel, and head back out tomorrow morning."

"Aye, Strike Commander." Jackson nodded, relieved inwardly that he'd have the opportunity to properly rest before heading back out.

"Dismissed, Agent." Morrison declared, and Jackson promptly closed the sidearm case and walked out of the conference room, sighing in relief as he leaned against the wall outside. Ana walked out a moment later and smiled a bit at Jackson.

"That tired, hmmm?" She said with a smile, and Jackson chuckled a bit.

"Aye...even after sleeping properly last night, I still feel tired." Jackson confessed.

"Where'd you stay in Annecy?" Ana inquired.

"I stayed at Gerard's place." Jackson smiled a bit. "Amelié was happy to have me there." Ana smiled and nodded before looking a little more serious.

"Listen, Jackson...would you mind coming by my quarters this evening?" Ana asked, and Jackson felt a slight jolt of surprise at the request.

"O-of course, any time!" Jackson nodded, and Ana smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder for a moment and looking as though she was going to say something, before turning and walking away, surprising Jackson even further. _What's going on...?_

 **x-x-x**

 _A Few Hours Later_

Jackson, now dressed casually, trekked his way through Overwatch HQ towards Ana's living quarters. He felt nervous, if he was being perfectly frank with himself, as Ana had invited him plenty of times to her quarters, but she'd never specifically requested for him to. Jackson was unsure of what was going on, but as he approached the door, he wasn't about to question it. He inhaled for a moment and pressed the buzzer to let her know he was outside, and a moment later the door opened, revealing Ana herself, now also dressed casually, who smiled upon seeing him.

"Thanks for coming, Jackson. Come on in." Ana stepped aside as Jackson stepped in, bracing for that moment when Fareeha would come bounding forward to tackle him, but none came.

"Is...Fareeha not here?" Jackson looked at Ana in a confused manner.

"She's back in Egypt." Ana stated, sitting down on the couch as the door closed behind her, and Jackson felt she looked more...vulnerable than normal. Ana looked very uncharacteristically off, in fact. That usual smile of hers, that warm gaze, her usually shining eyes...they weren't there. Concern and even slight panic welled up in Jackson as he slowly sat down next to her.

"Ana...?" Jackson said her name softly. "Is...something wrong...?" Ana inhaled and sighed deeply before turning to look Jackson in the eye.

"I'm sure you're wondering why I requested to meet with you alone, Jackson." She stated correctly, and he nodded slowly.

"Aye...?"

"Well..." Ana looked away for a moment, appearing to be very deep in thought for a long moment. "...your report today bothered me deeply." She sat back on the couch for a moment as though gathering her thoughts. "The fact is...I've been suspecting a much larger plot to be at work since your debriefing, as you're no doubt well aware. Hearing it confirmed, however...is almost worse." Ana inhaled for a moment and sighed once more. "Fact is, I sent Fareeha back to Egypt because of this suspicion. My gut is telling me constantly that something horrible is going to happen soon. How soon...I couldn't tell you. And that scares me, Jackson." The young scot was dumbfounded. He'd never heard Ana speak like this before, and it scared him. If something was bad enough to scare Ana Amari, a founder of Overwatch and one of the most battle-hardened women he knew, and it hadn't even happened yet...just what could that be, exactly?

"I..." Jackson was at a loss for words, a fact that was compounded when Ana suddenly turned to him and drew him into a tight hug. "A-Ana?!"

"Jackson..." Her voice was soft, and she held him tightly as he slowly returned the hug, the two of them simply sitting there as such for a long moment, and neither of them said a word. For a long moment, they simply sat there, hugging onto one another tightly, and slowly but surely, Jackson realized what was wrong.

Ana hadn't wanted her theory to be right, as he realized now, because of how badly the implications of it scared her. And his report had revealed her theory was not only very much close to correct, but the reality of the situation held implications of things far worse than those of Ana's own theory. She was worried deeply, and scared, and Jackson knew why. Overwatch was like family to her, as she'd said many times, and the only way for her to be this scared was if whatever she suspected would soon happen threatened Overwatch itself. Jackson for the life of him couldn't comprehend what could possibly be so bad that the very organization he considered a family he never had was threatened by it, and it scared him for a fact. But as bad as it scared him...it was nothing to what Ana was feeling at that moment.

"Ana." Jackson's voice made her draw back a little bit, and for a moment the two of them looked one another in the eyes. "Listen...I...I know I've only been here for three years. It feels like it's been far longer. But...I can honestly say that whatever happens, I'm not going down without a fight." Ana's eyes widened for a moment, and he continued on. "I was taught a lot growing up in Scotland...a lot about self-preservation, a lot about survival, and it kept me alive. But..." He paused for a moment and inhaled deeply. "I don't care about any of that here. I actually have something here that keeps me coming back. Or rather...I have some _people_ that keep me coming back." Ana smiled warmly, and she hugged him tighter.

"Jackson, would you be willing to stay the evening here?" The sudden question took Jackson off-guard, especially after his monologue, and it took him a moment before realizing what Ana asked, and as if to confirm it, she continued. "With Fareeha in Egypt, it would be nice to have some company, and since you head back out tomorrow...I thought it would do you some good as well."

"Heh." Jackson smiled. Ana knew him so well, and indeed, he felt the pleasant company would be more than welcome before heading back out into the field, even if it was just for the evening. "I'm always grateful to be welcomed here, Ana. Of course I will." Ana smiled and gave Jackson a small peck on the cheek.

"Thank you, Jackson."

It would be a long evening, and Jackson couldn't shake the feeling that it was one of the last he would have for some time. Every day this ominous feeling was growing, and the more it did, the more protective he felt of his Overwatch family. He knew in his gut that he would do anything he could to make sure they were safe.

If he only knew _just_ how far he truly would go.


End file.
